


Denial & Deception

by Bohemienne



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Espionage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, fake dating for intelligence purposes only, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-23 20:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 85,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20895731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: When the Black Eagles Strike Force's top mole in the Leicester Alliance is discovered, Byleth proposes a drastic plan to gather the necessary intelligence for an invasion. Hubert and Ferdinand will have to fake a clandestine relationship, feud with Edelgard, flee the Empire, and take refuge in the Alliance to begin gathering the information the emperor needs . . . assuming they don't kill each other in the process.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A new multi-chapter fic! This one is _far_ more ridiculous in its premise and much, much fluffier. (...Or is it?) I'll also be updating somewhat less frequently.

The first day of Great Tree Moon begins so perfectly that Ferdinand can hardly understand, later, how it goes so horribly wrong.

It is the first true day of spring, and the gardens of the former monastery are rejoicing with blooms of white and violet and red and pink. The air is just crisp enough to keep him from breaking a sweat as he sips his tea, and birdsong and floral fragrance fill the courtyards with a mythical air. Even the glowering Minister of the Imperial Household seated across from him is donning an expression that, given enough time and coffee, just might be deemed a smile. With an anxious flutter in his chest, Ferdinand rather hopes it might.

“You’re humming,” Hubert says, raising one eyebrow. “What has you in such a joyous mood?”

“Am I? Well. How could I not?” Ferdinand picks up his teacup, pinkie extended elegantly. “Look around us. Her Majesty is turning the tide of victory, the lands are blooming, the professor is returned to us, and you did not even overboil the tea.” Ferdinand takes a sip, as if to prove his point. “Also, I dare say that _some_one has a birthday coming up.”

Hubert sets his coffee cup down with a clatter. The hint of a smile is gone, but fortunately, his angular face is just as striking with a scowl. “If that is your way of subtly reminding me that _you_ have a birthday coming up as well, then I refuse to be taken in by your schemes.”

Ferdinand presses a gloved hand to his chest. “How right you are! I’d nearly forgotten. A happy birth month to us both, von Vestra.”

“Don’t dissemble. You do not forget your birthday, Ferdinand.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m fairly certain you begin counting down to the next one on the day immediately following the last.”

He wasn’t entirely wrong—at least, in the days before the war—but Ferdinand doesn’t need to concede the point just yet. “I think that I should like a new saddle for Marcus for my birthday. He serves me so well, and he deserves the finest.”

“Sounds like a wasteful expense in wartime,” Hubert says.

“Well, I would gladly give the old one to another cavalryman in need! It should still be perfectly functional. But what about you, Hubert? Any particular gift you’re hoping to receive?”

Ferdinand brings the teacup to his lips to conceal his own anxious smile. Perhaps he’s being too obvious—an eternal weakness of his. Unlike Hubert, subterfuge is not amongst Ferdinand’s considerable talents. But this easy camaraderie they’ve settled into over the past few years is . . . well. It is a comfort, given where they started, and to imagine anything more is the sort of silly indulgence Ferdinand has done his best to leave behind.

Left smoldering in the ruins of the old order, with the echoes of the foolish boy he was before. The sort of boy who has no place in Emperor Edelgard’s new dawn. Certainly not the sort to impress that cold, exacting stare Hubert is currently fixing him with.

Only then does Ferdinand realize his teacup is empty and he’s sipping at air, and he hurriedly sets it back down.

“The only gift I need is to see Her Majesty victorious,” Hubert says. “That should be enough for all of us, don’t you agree?”

Ferdinand’s hand shakes as he tries to pour another cup. Useless nerves. “And so she shall be! But that was never in doubt. Surely there is _some_thing you must want for yourself—”

“Ferdinand.” Hubert’s hand closes on top of his on the teapot, and Ferdinand stifles a yelp. “You’re making a mess.”

“I—Oh.” A splash of tea is currently spreading across the wooden garden table. “My apologies—”

“Honestly, Ferdinand. What’s come over you? I haven’t seen you so rattled since the day of the Ethereal Moon ball.”

With a squeak, Ferdinand relinquishes control of the teapot and what’s left of its contents to Hubert, who pours him out a fresh cup before tossing his own napkin on the table to sop up the tea Ferdinand spilled. Ferdinand considers helping, then decides he’s most useful sitting on his hands just now. “The ball? What an—absurd thing to bring up!”

“Mm. The White Heron Cup, then. They all blur together in my mind.”

Ferdinand rather hopes that’s true, as it’s better than the alternative. “Well, I suppose it’s the, uh . . . the overpowering fragrance of the flowers in bloom. It must be going to my head.”

Hubert merely _hmm_s in response and moves the damp napkin onto the tea service.

Ferdinand carefully drags his teacup back toward him and takes a sip. “All that aside. You are still not exempt from the question.”

“Goodness. Relentless today, aren’t we.” And somehow the faint quirk of one side of Hubert’s lips tangles up Ferdinand worse than if he’d smiled in full. “My interrogators could learn from you. Very well.”

Hubert leans back in his seat, now, and brings one ankle across one knee as he laces gloved fingers over the other. That burning gaze sweeps over Ferdinand again, and he has to look away, heat rising on his cheeks.

“I suppose, were it possible, there is one thing I would have for myself.”

Ferdinand glances back, pulse fluttering. He feels pinned in place, not at all unlike one of Hubert’s interrogation subjects. It catches his breath far more than he’d ever care to admit. Slowly, Hubert smiles. It’s like a shard of ice, and it stings much the same.

“I think,” Hubert says, pitching his voice to a low shiver, “that I should very much like—”

Then there’s the shuffle of boots on pavement as a page appears at the garden alcove’s entrance.

“—Pardon the interruption. Minister von Vestra. General von Aegir.”

Stare broken, Ferdinand feels like he’s about to collapse, limbs sprawling everywhere as he forces himself to look away from Hubert. Well, what in the hells had he expected? What did he honestly think the snake would say? Ridiculous. He’s being utterly ridiculous. Spring is in the air, indeed, with all the attendant stupidity it brings.

“What is it?” Hubert snaps, foot dropping back down. “Today is our free day. Surely you—”

“I’m sorry, Minister! Truly!” The page drops into a frantic bow. “Only—Her Majesty has summoned you. Both of you. A matter of some urgency.”

They both stand, chairs screeching against stone, but Hubert makes it to the courtyard’s exit first. “Urgent? What was Her Majesty’s demeanor?”

“She seemed—displeased, sir—”

Ferdinand is trailing behind them, but he doesn’t miss the sudden tension that draws up Hubert’s shoulders. “Very well. Consider us summoned. Come, von Aegir—”

“Right behind you,” Ferdinand calls.

Hubert is anxious enough for the both of them, so Ferdinand does his best to walk with his chest proud and head raised as they head for the war council room. He takes a few lengthy strides to walk abreast to Hubert, who glances at him sideways; lets out a slow breath and nods, then slows his pace to match Ferdinand’s. There is nothing to fear, Ferdinand wants to reassure him—their defenses are sound, no alarm has been raised, and their scouts would have given them advance warning. The truth is, he’s just as concerned as Hubert, but unlike Hubert, he’s considerably less troubled by the slightest dip in Her Majesty’s moods.

As if Her Majesty has been anything short of rapturous since the professor returned to them. Ferdinand catches himself smiling at the thought. There’s no missing the looks the two exchange, reunited against all odds . . . He’d dare say it’s enough to give hope even for someone like himself.

They reach the war council room, and Hubert all but dives for the door, shoving both Ferdinand and the guards aside with a snarl. “Out of my way.”

Ferdinand sighs. _Or perhaps not._

“Hubert. Ferdinand.” Her Majesty’s voice booms across the chambers as they enter. “You both have much to answer for.”

Ferdinand makes a sound like a goose being strangled as, beside him, Hubert’s already pale complexion turns the shade of rancid milk.

“Close the doors,” Edelgard commands.

She’s standing at the head of the table, leaning on both fists, her jaw clenched. Beside her, Byleth is covering her mouth as if fighting . . . a smile?

“Y-Your Majesty,” Hubert stammers.

And then the doors slam shut, and Edelgard eases into a broad grin.

“Please. Come here. Forgive the . . . necessary ruse, ministers.” She waves them toward the far end of the table.

Yes, Byleth was definitely hiding a grin, though she tries to wipe it away. Ferdinand tilts his head as he draws closer, apprehensive.

Hubert all but races to Edelgard’s side and drops into a kneel. “Your Majesty.”

“Oh, relax, Hubert. Sit. I told you, I’m not angry. But we do have important matters to discuss.”

Ferdinand sits diagonal to Byleth, as Hubert takes a seat opposite him, diagonal to Edelgard. At this point, he isn’t sure what to think. It’s already been an emotional tempest of a day, with no signs of relenting anytime soon. He’s anticipating he’ll need a lengthy ride with Marcus to clear his head afterward.

“Thank you for coming, both of you. Professor?” Edelgard asks. “Would you like to explain?”

Byleth simply shakes her head, wide eyes fixed on Edelgard, whose cheeks redden in turn. Goddess, so Ferdinand _hadn’t_ been imagining things between those two. A funny hollow opens up within him.

“Very well. What I’m about to tell you both is not to leave this room. It is a matter of utmost secrecy and urgency. Do you understand?”

“Always, my lady,” Hubert says smoothly, as Ferdinand nods.

“Our spies within the Leicester Alliance are reporting a significant buildup of forces there.” Edelgard looks down at the papers spread before her. “It’s likely in anticipation of what they see as our imminent incursion into Alliance lands. But more so, it would seem they’re brokering alliances with nations further afield—Morfis, Almyra, and more.” Edelgard sighs. “However, our highest-placed spy within Claude’s administration was caught trying to deliver a message, and most of our other contacts have gone dark as they await the fallout.”

Ferdinand worries his lower lip with his teeth. As he risks a glance at Hubert, he finds him staring down at the table with a frown. He already knew this much, then—they were his spies, after all.

“Let me be clear, gentlemen. We need more intelligence. Better intelligence. Claude is planning to counter us, possibly very soon. It has been our hope that we could confront the Alliance’s forces before he had time to finish his preparations, but I cannot send our army blindly into battle.”

“Anything you require, Your Majesty,” Hubert says. “I shall put all our intelligence efforts on the matter—”

“I will ride out for advanced reconnaissance myself, if I must!” Ferdinand adds. “I am sure I can track their troop movements and infer Claude’s scheme—”

“Please.” Edelgard holds up one hand. “You’re both very capable. This isn’t intended as a criticism of your work. But the truth is, these are dangerous times, and as such, they require dangerous, daring methods to succeed.”

Byleth offers a nod of support; slides a paper over to Edelgard. Edelgard scans it and takes a deep breath.

“Which is why we’ve devised a mission for the both of you.”

“I—Oh.” Ferdinand blinks, then permits himself another glance at Hubert. “The two of us?” But Hubert isn’t looking at him; he’s now fixated on the sliver of space between the emperor and the professor.

Well. So Ferdinand isn’t the only one feeling envious of their closeness. Only he suspects Hubert’s envy has considerably more to do with feeling as though he’s been replaced. There was a time Ferdinand would have gloated endlessly at that, but all he feels now is a guilty twinge.

“What we need,” Edelgard says, “is to put on a performance for Claude and his spies. Hence my little outburst earlier,” she adds with a wry smile. “He needs to believe our leadership is fractured and broken. And ultimately, he needs to believe that those who were once my most loyal advisers are his for the taking. His pride and love of irony, I think, will take over then; he won’t realize the vipers he’s brought into his den.”

“I—I’m sorry.” Ferdinand wrinkles his brow. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. His for the taking?”

“That’s right. I wish for you to pretend to defect.”

Ferdinand snorts. “Of all the outrageous—”

“Outrageous? No. It’s crafty. The kind of deception we need to beat the likes of Claude.” Edelgard smiles. “And actually, it will be both of you, in order to fully sell the ruse.”

Hubert barks a hysterical laugh. “Forgive me, my lady—while I admire the cunning in this plan, I must admit . . . I can’t see anyone truly believing that I would _abandon_ you. And if you’ll forgive my saying so, von Aegir—” and the smarmy grin he gives Ferdinand bears no trace of regret—“I’m not certain Ferdinand’s equipped for this kind of subterfuge. I could handle any number of espionage missions for you on my own, as I have no doubt amply demonstrated—”

“Which is precisely why I want you for this mission, Hubert. Your skills at manipulation, denial, and deception are unmatched, and it is that level of skill that we will need. But you’re right, giving a convincing reason for you to leave my service will take an extraordinary effort. Which is why Ferdinand must be involved, as well.”

Ferdinand feels the dread looming over him like a shadow. Like a—lurking—Hubert. He can’t say what it is he dreads, only that whatever it is that’s coming, he is certain he wants no part of it, and he is also certain he has absolutely, utterly no choice in the matter.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Hubert says. “Why both?”

Edelgard takes a careful breath, and Byleth looks down, once again suppressing a grin.

“The most plausible solution we could come up with is for the two of you to pretend to be conducting a clandestine relationship,” Edelgard finally says.

Ferdinand briefly forgets words, their meanings, and the function of language itself. “I . . . What?”

Hubert makes some kind of hairball-retching noise. “Conducting a—”

“You can determine the details between yourselves. But the rough plot we’ve designed is this. You’ve been carrying on a secret relationship, because you believe that were I to learn of it, I would call into question your judgment, discretion, and commitment to the war effort—”

“Your Majesty.” Hubert’s face is long, bone-bleached now. “If—If I’ve done something to displease you, or—”

“Please, Hubert. This should be child’s play for you.” Edelgard smiles, looking, Ferdinand thinks, a little too pleased with herself. “—But I learn of the relationship and accuse you both of disloyalty. That sense of betrayal, compounded with Ferdinand’s constant desire to outdo me, and Hubert’s resentment that the professor here has undermined his position, builds a plausible scenario for the two of you to flee the monastery in a rage.”

“F-_flee_—” Ferdinand stammers.

“Yes. After a very public argument, of course.” Edelgard smiles. “And once you’ve defected, I am quite certain you will serve as suitable bait for the Alliance. They should be highly interested in whatever intelligence you’re able to provide. Only, as they think they’re gaining insight from the two of you, you’ll be collecting everything we need to claim victory in Derdriu.”

Ferdinand’s entire body feels like coals being stoked. It’s very possible he will melt right through his chair—which would be a welcome relief, at this point. “You want us to c-c-c-court each—”

“Only in the interest of a suitable denial and deception campaign.” At this, she gives Hubert a pointed look. “Which you _should_ be well-versed in.”

“It’s—too unbelievable.” Hubert laughs, the very sound itself unraveling. “That I would ever abandon you—that I would _court Ferdinand_—”

“You should be so lucky!” Ferdinand snaps, face flushing. The nerve of him, making it sound like such a terrible thing! “The idea that I would stoop to sneaking about with—with a ridiculous lizard like yourself—”

“Oh? Well, I think it’s rather bold of the professor to assume neither of us are previously engaged. Or did you consider that in your scheming, Byleth?” Hubert asks.

Byleth merely arches a doubting eyebrow at him, but Ferdinand clamps his mouth shut. He’s going to be sick. And if Hubert’s implying that he’s—that all this time, he’s been—

“Is there something you need to tell me, Hubert?” Edelgard asks, a curious edge to her tone.

“I . . . No.” Hubert glowers down at the table. “But,” and now he offers one of his crueler smiles, “I’m not sure I can say the same for Ferdinand.”

“I _beg your pardon_—”

“Ferdinand?” Edelgard folds her arms, turning toward him.

“Absolutely not! If I were to court someone, I would do it properly. In the open. With flowers and—and strolls, and—”

Hubert scoffs. “No. You would never stoop to amorous trysts in the stables, or in the cloister bushes—”

Ferdinand’s collar quite suddenly feels like it’s choking him. “_What in the hells are you talking about—_”

“_Gentlemen, enough_,” Edelgard says, with considerable force. “I—really don’t need to know the details of Ferdinand’s romantic disasters.”

Ferdinand drags a hand down one side of his face. “_There are no romantic disasters!_” No, there would have to be _romance_—

“The_ point_ is to offer a plausible scenario, and this does just that. Furthermore, it plays into Claude’s preconceived notions of all of us. He thinks me a stern authoritarian demanding total subservience; he thinks you’re in constant competition with me, Ferdinand, and would be all too happy to see me suffer in your absence. And Hubert, he sees you as vengeful and bitter, and given what he knows about your—”

“Enough.” The color has returned to Hubert’s face with a vengeance, painting his cheeks a deep scarlet. “You’ve made your point.”

Edelgard raises an eyebrow at him. “Well, the best lies are always seeded with a grain of truth, don’t you think?”

And that’s the worst part of it. Everything she’s said thus far actually sounds reasonable, _plausible._ The only part of the whole mad idea that Ferdinand can truly object to is the part where he has to—where he must pretend he would _ever_—

“Even if this _were_ to work,” Hubert says, “it could take months to gain Claude’s trust. Are you certain we have that long, my lady? And are you certain that Adrestia’s forces will not be compromised from such a prolonged absence for myself and von Aegir?”

“Well, seeing as you are both so fond of working yourself half to death, I think we can make do for a while yet. You’ve drawn up plans months in advance, after all. And I do have the professor to assist me.” Byleth nods her agreement. “But after your alleged defection, I plan to place Bernadetta in the role of general, while Linhardt will handle your duties, Hubert.”

“_Linhardt_—”

“You don’t think he can manage your networks with the requisite diligence and dispassion?” Edelgard asks. “You underestimate him. And Bernadetta has learned a great deal from working as Ferdinand’s assistant.”

As loathe as Ferdinand is to admit it, Bernadetta _has_ been doing a masterful job learning with him. She’s really grown into a talented young woman, often completing his proposal drafts for him with only the scarcest of details and guidance, relieving his burdens immensely. Not that he thinks he could ever truly be replaced. But perhaps . . . if only for a short while . . .

“I’m sorry. But I cannot abide by this,” Hubert blurts. “I cannot see Claude falling for such an obvious ruse. And your strategizing is much appreciated, professor, but you _have_, after all, been gone for several years. You’ve no idea what sort of leader Claude is now, nor what kind of careful deception campaign is likely to work in the current geopolitical—”

“Hubert, please—” Edelgard tries—

“—and to expect me to enter into such a precarious subterfuge with _von Aegir_, of all people.” Here, his contemptuous sneer sweeps in Ferdinand’s direction with a scrape like a dull knife. “He has the subtlety of a Dagdan carnival, and the deceptive prowess of a cheese wheel. To think that I, of all people, could be enchanted by such a foppish windbag defies all belief.”

The room is icily silent. Edelgard, perhaps, for the sheer shock of Hubert _interrupting_ her—a phenomenon Ferdinand has heretofore never witnessed. But what Ferdinand feels is a painful tightness around his throat, his cravat too tight, his _skin_ too tight, at once as though he is far too much and not nearly enough and never will be. As though he simply . . . isn’t.

He knows Hubert detested him, once. Resented the way he was always competing with Edelgard, and with everyone, truth be told. The feeling had been entirely mutual. But he’d like to think they’ve grown past those early, anxious days. That they’ve come to respect one another, as much for their disagreements as for where they harmonize. That they see strengths in one another they could not possibly bring to bear themselves, and together, build into a powerful scaffolding to bolster the new empire in ways they couldn’t possibly achieve alone.

Ferdinand has grown—fond of him, in the way one becomes fond of a harmless spider that’s taken up residence in a nearby corner. Unsettling, true, but beautiful in its own way, fastidious, elegant. A reassuring presence.

And while that tendency toward fondness and reassurance might occasionally meander down less familiar paths—might occasionally conjure up dreams of sideways glances and bare fingers brushing against wrists and maybe, maybe, somewhat more than was really polite to put into words—well, he’d had years of practice locking those thoughts in the chest where they belonged.

_We can’t always have what we desire, Ferdinand, _the echoes remind him from his life before. _Even if we can fool ourselves for a time . . ._

So to hear Hubert disparage that progress so callously, to hear him express such an appalling and cruel opinion of the sort Ferdinand has fought so hard to shed—it’s more than he can bear.

It is a challenge. And Ferdinand von Aegir will be damned if he’s going to back down from a gauntlet so savagely tossed.

“I’ll do it,” Ferdinand announces, and all heads turn his way. “I can be just as skillful an infiltrator as Hubert—possibly more so—and you are quite right, Your Majesty. The potential benefits to be gained are well worth the risks.”

“Ferdinand,” Hubert says, warning in his tone.

“I may not have your skill for espionage, but I _am_ classically trained in dramaturgy,” Ferdinand says. “This should be quite simple, really. We need only establish a convincing feud with Her Majesty, make our dramatic exit, and then present a compelling case to the Alliance to give us refuge.”

A compelling case—by which he means pretending they are so enamored with one another they’d be willing to abandon the empire in the name of love. The room shifts and wavers around him. He’ll have to feign courting Hubert—secretly, and yet not so secretly it goes unremarked. Touches that linger a little too long. Staying at his side beyond what is required by their station. Possibly even an indiscreet encounter, somewhere they might be observed—

Now he really wishes he could melt through the floor.

“Thank you, Ferdinand. I appreciate your willingness to go along with such an unorthodox request,” Edelgard says. “It is unorthodox thinking, after all, that will see us to victory and a new age.”

At that, they all turn as one to Hubert, who is clenching and unclenching his fists on the table.

“I . . . would . . . never disobey a direct order from you, my lady.” His smile is so strained, it looks ready to snap. “I do fear it will take considerable effort on my part to educate von Aegir on even the most basics of surveillance and subterfuge, but I will . . . give it my all . . . in your name.”

Edelgard sits back down, her regal poise returning. “Thank you, friend. That is a relief to hear. Well. I suppose we begin now, then. Sowing the seeds of discord in my inner circle. Increasingly egregious behavior from the two of you as you defy my direct orders. We must make a very convincing case. Can you manage that?”

“As my lady commands.”

“With aplomb,” Ferdinand agrees. He risks a glance at Hubert only to find him staring daggers right back at him, and swallows.

_Oh, Goddess. This is going to be a nightmare._

“Then you are dismissed.”

Byleth looks up from her papers as Ferdinand tries to compose himself. He’s not entirely sure his legs can support him just now. “You know,” Byleth says, in that eerily calm voice of hers, “you could always make use of your Dancer costume.”

And it’s far too close for Ferdinand’s comfort—the memories of their year at the academy with Byleth teaching them, his victory at the White Heron Cup, and then after, that accursed _ball_—

“M-maybe I shall!” he squeaks, and lets adrenaline steady him enough to run toward the doors.

“Ferdie.”

The voice calling after him is at once familiar and so very, very foreign that it stops him completely. He’s never heard such—dare he say it—_affection_ in it before. And to call him by a nickname? Oh. This is going to be far too much.

Ferdinand puts a hand against the doorframe to collect himself. Yes. They both have their roles to play.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert says, much more coldly this time. “Where is it you think you’re going?”

“Um.” Ferdinand swallows; turns to find Hubert standing entirely too close for comfort. “Away?”

“Not yet, you aren’t.”

Ferdinand looks up. Finds a single eye boring into him with venomous intent. Oh, dear. Hubert is _livid_. Ferdinand can already feel his insides withering up like he’s drunk poison.

“I think you and I,” Hubert grits out through clenched teeth, “have some work to do. Some matters to _discuss_.”

“Oh. Erm.” Ferdinand sincerely wishes his face was not currently on fire; he might look at least somewhat less intimidated. “I suppose we could speak in my office—”

Hubert exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, _Ferdie_. The entire point is to appear indiscreet.” Hubert’s shoulders rise and fall, and he composes himself. “Once we walk out these doors, we are, to all appearances, engaged in a tumultuous and ill-considered affair. I do hope you’re prepared to act like it.”

Ferdinand swallows down a hysterical laugh. “I—Yes.”

Eyes squeezed shut, Hubert asks, as if he were requesting his own execution, “Do I have your permission to . . . touch you? To—to demonstrate our indiscretion.”

Ferdinand clenches his clammy hands. “Oh. Of course. Y-yes. You may.”

Hubert nods, face still wrenched shut. “And I give you leave to . . . do as you see fit for your part, as well.”

There is a maelstrom of possibility that flashes through Ferdinand’s mind at those thoughts before he firmly shuts them down. “Thank you.”

“All right. Come.” Finally Hubert’s expression falls, something wistful twisting his lips. “Act as if you actually care for me.”

Ferdinand winces, but Hubert is already opening the council room doors.

As soon as they’re in the corridor, Hubert reaches for him, well in sight of the corridor guards. “Come, Ferdie. We do not need to listen to this _slander_ a minute longer from that interloper.”

Ferdinand swallows, trying to find the right approach to his new role. “B-but Her Majesty—”

“_Her Majesty_ seems to have lost her head.” Hubert glances over his shoulder as he beckons Ferdinand nearer. “But I suppose there is one set of rules for the emperor, and one for the rest of us.”

Sure enough, one of the guards makes a startled sound. _Well. That’s one seed planted,_ Ferdinand thinks. Even knowing it’s an act, the words sound positively blasphemous coming from _Hubert_ of all people.

As Ferdinand reaches his side, Hubert extends his arm, and Ferdinand reaches his out to match—resulting in an awkward crumpling of fingers and limbs. “_What are you doing_,” Hubert hisses out of the side of his mouth, before swatting Ferdinand’s hand away and pressing his palm to the small of Ferdinand’s back.

“I thought we were—I thought you wished to hold hands—”

“What are we, children? Flames.” His fingers dig in, apparent even through the thick fabric of Ferdinand’s cloak and jacket. It feels surprisingly warm, given the padding; Ferdinand tries not to shiver.

“Should I be kissing you instead?” Though as soon as Ferdinand says it, he feels his face reach an entirely new level of molten.

“The point is to act like we _believe_ we are being subtle. Tilt your head toward me. Smile, for saints’ sake. There. That’s better.” Hubert’s head turns toward his with a strained rictus. “You’re furious at the emperor, but resolute in your desire to stay by my side.”

“It’s that winning smile of yours,” Ferdinand says. “Like a funereal mask.”

At that, Hubert’s cheeks turn the most becoming shade of crimson, and the smile immediately returns to his default murderous scowl. _Ah_, Ferdinand thinks, _so I do have something to teach you yet._

Hubert leads them to the gardens, and finds a remote bench, only partly shielded from the view of the busier thoroughfares. Soldiers, their former classmates, and townsfolk alike are bustling about in the pleasant weather, and there are sure to be countless prying eyes. They sit too close—Hubert’s thigh pressing into his own. Bow their heads too close. Hubert’s gloved hand rests on his own thigh, but for one pinkie, grazing the seam where their legs meet, and Ferdinand’s stomach flips at the sheer indecency of it all.

“Now, then,” Hubert says, the bitter smile returning. “Allow me to make something very clear to you.”

He’s speaking low, low enough to keep from being overheard. To any passersby, it would appear they’re having a pleasant chat. Ferdinand’s heart sinks at the truth. “Whatever it is you need to say.”

“I am doing this purely out of respect for Her Majesty and her wishes, and even then, I have serious reservations. But I trust we can both be . . . professionals, yes? Not let our personal sentiments get in the way of our service to the empire?”

Ferdinand tries to keep smiling, and not look like he’s swallowed a bug. Goddess. _Surely_ he does not mean—“I am offended. I am perfectly immune to your charms, von Vestra.”

Hubert flinches. “Well. That is gratifying to know. But I was referring to our sometimes _antagonistic_ relationship—”

“I thought we were past all that,” Ferdinand whispers. “And then you insult me, right in front of Her Majesty. Am I truly so unbearable to you? Nothing but an insufferable fop?”

Hubert clenches his jaw and pulls his hand back into his own lap. “I’m sorry. I let my anger get the best of me.”

“Well. Understandable, given the circumstances.” Ferdinand tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. It wasn't as if he was expecting some grand declaration. He's fairly certain Hubert only keeps his company for lack of other options. “I thank you for your honesty, I suppose.”

“Still,” Hubert says, “I do wish there had been another way.”

Ferdinand does his best not to let his smile falter at that. “Naturally. But this is what we have been given to work with, and I for one intend to achieve it to the fullest. If you are not up to the task—”

“Are you implying I would ever give anything less than my all for Her Majesty?” Hubert's voice stretches tight, like garrote wire.“Because I assure you, I shall work ceaselessly to succeed.” He shifts, then, body turning toward Ferdinand's, venomous gaze hot against Ferdinand's skin. “There is no other option now. So I do hope you are prepared.”

“Of course I am!” Ferdinand lets out a squeaky laugh.

“Are you certain?” Hubert asks. “Because the way you look right now is not encouraging. If we’re to sell this ruse so effectively that we can flee the monastery in a week’s time, and it seems perfectly reasonable . . .”

Ferdinand tries to brush a stray lock back from his face, but fails, his hands unsteady. “I am not certain what you mean. I am playing my role—”

Hubert raises an eyebrow. “You’re trembling, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand tries, and fails, not to. “No?”

“I don't mean for you to be afraid of me.” His voice softens. “Not now, at least.”

“And other times?”

Hubert meets his gaze fully, for the first time since they left the meeting. It's like spiders crawling on Ferdinand's skin. Prickly and unsettling and impossible to brush away. “A healthy distance from me is always warranted,” Hubert says. “But I suppose we should worry about that once our task is done.”

Ferdinand nods, relief washing over him. “Right. Soon enough, the alliance shall be crushed, and I can return to my duties, and you can resume . . . whatever slithery things it is that you do.”

Hubert grits his teeth. “I do not _slither_.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Ferdinand says, sticking his nose up.

And then Hubert does the most horrifying thing yet.

A gloved hand brushes Ferdinand's cheek, sweeping his stray hair back and tucking it so delicately behind one ear. A hand which Ferdinand is quite certain has killed many a foe for Her Majesty, and yet is so gentle, barely touching him now. Ferdinand freezes, and doesn’t think he could breathe if he wanted to. Those cloth-softened fingertips linger at Ferdinand's temple before skimming down the line of his jaw to land at his chin. Pressing it between thumb and fingers, Hubert slowly turns Ferdinand’s face his way.

“Your features are far too lovely to shield so,” Hubert says, though each word sounds as though it were dragged out of him under considerable duress.

Ferdinand’s heart slams, frantic, against his ribs. “Y-you do not mean that.”

“Perhaps not.” The breathless smile on Hubert's face continues to sell their ruse. “But I needed you to don that expression you're currently wearing.”

Ferdinand curses himself and his own idiocy. But he manages not to let the smile fade, no matter how badly it stings.

Hubert's gaze tracks something over Ferdinand's shoulder, and sure enough, Dorothea soon comes into view, very deliberately not looking at them on the bench. As soon as she is out of sight, Hubert releases his chin and drops his hands to his lap once more.

Ferdinand stops himself just short of rubbing his jaw. The touch still lingers. But then, he supposes, who knows what sort of vile chemicals cling to Hubert's glove?

“I expect the flywheels of gossip shall be shuttling into full effect now,” Ferdinand says.

“As intended.”

Ferdinand lets himself stare just a moment longer. Wishes he could etch the expression on Hubert’s face into the back of his mind. It’s a dreadful mission, a dreadful convergence of circumstance—and yet it also feels like an answer to a question he long ago asked. But it is fleeting. Flimsy. Only a gauze bandage on the wound of his heart, sure to be discarded when its purpose is served.

_Even if we can fool ourselves for a time . . ._

“So.” Ferdinand forces his smile to widen. “What shall be our next step?”

And oh, there’s that dangerous glint in Hubert’s eyes. It always did know how to lead a soul astray. “Well, I do have an idea.”

Ferdinand swallows. “You’re the spymaster.”

“Meet me at the side of the cathedral at midnight tonight,” Hubert says. “Dressed in your usual fashion. And leave the rest to me.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hubert is still rather hoping this is all a nightmare, or perhaps a hallucination brought on by a poorly mixed poison. But as he stalks through the monastery, gathering what he needs for their subterfuge, he can still smell the powdery scent of Ferdinand’s skin on the tips of his glove. He closes his eyes, and there’s that stupid grin on Ferdinand’s face, almost but not quite believing that idiotic compliment he coughed up. The evidence is, unfortunately, pointing toward a reality far crueler than Hubert could devise for his worst enemies.

Ferdinand. Him. _Abandoning_ Edelgard. Weeks of behaving as though he’s hopelessly in love with him—possibly months. With someone so prim as Ferdinand, it won’t take much to sell the ruse; they’ll have to remain close, to be sure, but not overly so. Just close enough to be convincing. And nothing more.

And of course their audience would have to be Claude von Riegan. It’s all too much to bear.

He catches sight of himself reflected in the curve of an ornamental shield mounted on the wall. Stops. Smooths a stray hair back into place. He is not some _lizard_, not at all so repulsive as Ferdinand suggested. True, he was rather lacking in refinement back in their academy days, and more . . . pointlessly cruel, he can admit. Especially toward Ferdinand. He’d thought he’d shed that uncomfortable, uncertain skin once Her Majesty ascended to the throne, and there was no time for his idle thoughts to eat him alive any longer, torment him with all the wrong things to say and do. But now it all seems to have returned, all his old instincts forged into a set of bonds to restrain him.

_Foppish windbag._ He cringes and continues down the corridor.

“What now,” Ladislava sighs, the moment he enters the knights’ hall. She doesn’t even look up from the stacks of troop reports she’s sorting.

“I require the keys to the cathedral,” Hubert says.

She purses her lips. “And I require about two thousand more troops than we currently have. What of it?”

Hubert grits his teeth; does his best to look out of his element. It isn’t much of a stretch. “It’s for . . . urgent business. For Her Majesty.”

Finally Ladislava looks up, one eyebrow raised. “Is that so? Last I heard, you were in a bit of a row with her.”

Though he knows it’s exactly what they want, he can’t help the panic he feels. This is all too real; people are already thinking his loyalty has faltered. It stings to be seen this way. To know that soon, everyone will think even worse of him and his broken oath . . .

“We’re allowed our disagreements. That doesn’t mean I don’t have orders to carry out.”

“So if I ask Her Majesty why you’re wanting into the condemned ruins of the cathedral, she won’t be surprised?” Ladislava asks.

He tries to think how he would respond if he were, in fact, terrified of Edelgard learning what he was doing. But it’s still such a foreign sensation. Flames, this is going to be harder than he thought. “Will she be surprised to learn you’re refusing to comply with a direct order?”

Ladislava narrows her eyes. “I tell you what, _Minister_, bring me a requisition form and I’ll hand them straight over. But I can’t be seen making special exceptions.” Her eyes flash, narrowing. “Not even for the likes of you.”

“You’ll regret this,” Hubert mutters, and turns with a flare of his cape.

Ladislava laughs. “Why don’t you just pick the lock? That seems more your nature.”

As if he hadn’t made a spare set of keys to every door in the monastery back in their academy days. Fine. Let her think him both an amateur, _and_ that he’s trying to disobey Edelgard under her nose. His work here is done.

Now comes the true challenge—a midnight rendezvous with Ferdinand.

His stomach is revolting already.

* * *

The cool night air is no match for the nervous sweat filming Hubert’s brow as he waits for Ferdinand in the cathedral’s outer grounds. Which is ideal, really—in case he’s being observed, he _should_ look nervous, terrified of discovery and reprimand. In reality, he’s already successfully dodged two rounds of patrols just by retreating deeper into the shadows of the rubble and concealing his face under his cloak. If this plan doesn’t work, he really must have a stern word or two with the guard corps.

_There are much simpler ways of doing this,_ a voice chides him. He could have staged this scene perfectly well without Ferdinand’s assistance. But Ferdinand needs the crash lesson in subterfuge, and they could both use the opportunity to become more comfortable around each other, or at least, not nearly leap out of their skin at the slightest touch, as if they’re magnetically repulsed.

So he tells himself. For the dozenth time.

Finally, he spots the bright halo of hair dancing under the moonlight as Ferdinand makes his way across the bridge, his face soft and dewy, his movements effortlessly graceful, like some kind of silvered saint completing his pilgrimage. Hubert pinches the bridge of his nose; he’d forgotten to tell him to cover that hair. He doesn’t want the guards to spot Ferdinand just yet. Hubert steps out of the shadows and beckons him over, and with eyes widened, Ferdinand hurries his pace.

“There you are, my love,” Hubert says, and ignores Ferdinand’s surprised yip as he sweeps his black cloak around them both and pulls Ferdinand to him. Chest to chest. Ferdinand draws up short, a hair’s breadth between them, and that open, shocked gaze turns up toward him, and Hubert forgets what he’s supposed to do next because he’s already doing this all wrong—

“My . . . love,” Ferdinand echoes, his voice much too high. “You desired a . . . midnight . . . tryst in the cathedral?”

Ferdinand’s attempts to sound casual are patently ridiculous, and yet Hubert’s breath hitches nonetheless. He really should put his arm down. But no—no, this is the point, to dull his reactions whenever Ferdinand is near.

“Don’t try so hard,” he says under his breath, through gritted teeth as he forces a smile. “You sound like you’re auditioning for Lavinia in _Eagles’ Fury_.”

Ferdinand glowers. “I am a _tenor_, thank you very much, why on earth would I audition for a soprano—”

“Come,” Hubert says, louder now. “Before the next patrol arrives.”

Hand firmly clamped at Ferdinand’s shoulder, he all but drags him toward the side door, and unlocks it with his own set of keys. Let Ladislava assume he picked it, later. The door groans open, and they step into the inky darkness of the erstwhile cathedral.

Blades of moonlight pierce the narthex where the roof collapsed; gold leaf glitters like stars from the darkness of the sanctuary. Hubert has always detested this place, loathed it for everything it represented. But watching Ferdinand step inside with a soft, wistful expression on his face, footsteps soft and reverent, head tilted up in supplication . . . Even Hubert has to admit there is something lovely; perhaps even sacred about the space.

He works the door shut—nearly but not quite. Enough that an astute patrol _should_ notice, question it, and investigate. He hopes the corps is up to the task. Otherwise they’re in for a very long and uncomfortable wait.

“I haven’t really been inside, since . . .” Ferdinand runs a gloved hand over the back of a pew, then turns back toward Hubert with a shake of his head. “Well. No use dwelling.”

And that look of wonder on Ferdinand’s face, how graceful he looks bathed in moonlight, the utter trust he’s putting in Hubert to execute their scheme . . . Suddenly, Hubert is regretting this plan. More than he already was regretting this whole miserable operation, that is. Hubert is used to being seen as a frightful creature, lurking in darkness and desecrating everything he touches. Yet Ferdinand deserves better than a similar fate, just another thing tainted by the emperor’s shadow, and the terrible acts of treason they’ll be accused of, for a time.

But there’s no use fighting it now. This is the task they’ve been given.

“What did you have in mind?” Ferdinand asks softly.

“This way, please.”

Hubert leads him into a side chapel, one with a modest altar and a wrought iron candelabra beside it, both gathering dust. They have perhaps five minutes left to set the stage before the next patrol should pass by the outer door; he can’t keep putting this off any longer.

All he has to do is explain. Straightforward. Simple.

Explain. Yes.

He just has to open his bloody mouth and say the words—

“Are you going to tell me, or just keep staring like you’re trying to disintegrate me?”

His mouth is completely parched; when he speaks, his voice cracks. “Erm. Well. Let’s start with you sitting on this altar. Here.” He gestures toward the flat stone top.

Ferdinand’s nose wrinkles at all the dust furring it. “Hmm. Like so?” He hops up, nimble, and sits on the edge, booted feet dangling. Sure to leave tracks in the dust.

Hubert nods, satisfied, then moves to Ferdinand’s side.

“Now. Uh. If I could. Borrow a few of your hairs . . .”

Ferdinand raises one eyebrow. “Borrow? I’m not sure how you intend to give them back.”

He swallows. “Take, then.” He pulls a short blade from one pocket. “Just a few, I promise.”

Ferdinand sucks in his breath at the sight of the blade, but nods. “If you must.”

“Uh.” Hubert reaches for that thick mane of bright orange. He is more grateful than ever to be wearing his gloves as he separates a few strands from a wavy lock. Ferdinand is watching him—he feels that questioning stare—but he refuses to meet his gaze as he tracks the strands closer to Ferdinand’s scalp, then nicks them free with the blade.

When he steps back, a bead of sweat slips down his spine. Now he can turn away from Ferdinand fully to catch the strands of hair in the wrought iron candelabra beside them.

“And what,” Ferdinand asks, “is that meant to accomplish? Is this some sort of—ritual, or—”

“No. Think of it like evidence.” He gestures at the tableau. “Your rather distinctive hairs caught on the fixture, and then the, erm, dust removed from the altar—”

“Oh.” Ferdinand’s eyes widen and he covers his mouth. “Oh, Goddess. Is it meant to imply we—”

Hubert waits for him to continue, because he’ll be damned if he’s going to be the one to say it now, but he’s too busy turning a deep shade of indigo in the shadows. “That would rather be the idea of a midnight tryst, yes.”

“Well. I think it’s a bit presumptuous,” Ferdinand spits. “I thought maybe you could have summoned me here to . . . to braid my hair, or read me poetry, or something. Something sweet.”

“Poetry,” Hubert says flatly. “You want to be read poetry.”

“Maybe something you’ve written about my eyes.” Ferdinand huffs. “Would that be so terrible?”

Then Hubert makes the mistake of looking at those eyes. So bright and clear, even as Ferdinand’s mouth twists with distaste. They’ve always been so expressive. Like all the rest of Ferdinand. His joy and passion is always right there for the world to see, and it’s always been so dangerous, it’s always made it a little too easy to believe the lie that such a passion could be shared.

_Even if we can fool ourselves for a time . . ._

“Well, you’ll forgive me, then, for not preparing a poem. This is what we have to work with—”

“And who’s to say it shouldn’t be your . . . derriere . . . disturbing the dust here? Really, I find it quite presumptuous of you to dictate the nature of our—erm, carnal relations—”

Hubert’s face feels splashed with acid at that, and he very suddenly wishes he really could dissolve, acid-eaten, straight through the floor. Anything would be better than following that thread of thought. He really does _not_ need the images of Ferdinand standing before him at the altar, skin silver in the darkness, as he grips the backs of Hubert’s thighs—

Hubert swears under his breath. “Can we please just get on with it?”

Ferdinand stops swinging his legs, face rigid. “On with _what_?”

“Oh, don’t look so excited. We just need to place one more piece of evidence.”

And before he can lose his nerve, he steps into the narrow V between Ferdinand’s knees.

And then he is staring down at Ferdinand’s long lashes, fanned out across freckled cheeks. At rosy lips. He’s not sure he has seen Ferdinand from this angle before. Certainly it’s been some time since he was anywhere near close enough to see those freckles, so stark now in the nighttime, and the look on Ferdinand’s face is so open despite his trembling, just as trusting as the last . . .

“Hubert?” Ferdinand asks, the word scarcely more than a ribbon of air trailed across Hubert’s throat.

But Hubert can’t answer. What can he possibly say? _I’m sorry. But I wasn’t wrong, back then._ Should he be apologize that they’ve been thrust together like this? Apologize for how cruel he was? Today? Yesterday? All their lives?

He shouldn’t have said those things he said—shouldn’t have kept striking and striking, trying so hard to keep Ferdinand far away. He can’t keep shoving him with both hands as if he’ll ignore it, and come back to him, all the same. It won’t do them any good right now to have Ferdinand cowed and wary of him—even if it’s the best thing for both of them once this mission is done.

Maybe it’s far too late for that. Maybe the damage between them has long since been inflicted, and every moment they must endure of this is like pressing on old bruises. No wonder Ferdinand flinches from him, like he’s some rabid animal he can’t risk provoking.

“Hubert?” Ferdinand asks again, a little louder this time. “What are we . . .”

Hubert bites the inside of his cheek. Clearly he should have drank more coffee to help him focus tonight. “Uh. Something rather like this.”

Before he can think better of it, he brings both hands up to cup the underside of Ferdinand’s jaw. He doesn’t, strictly speaking, need to touch him there—but it helps Ferdinand get past the initial flinch from his touch. As though he’s something vile Ferdinand has to endure.

He skates his fingers down Ferdinand’s neck, right at the edge of his shirt collar; feels the bob of his throat’s apple as Ferdinand swallows. Slowly, he eases the ends of the red silk tie out of Ferdinand’s vest, and removes his tie pin in one nimble movement.

Then he sends the tie pin scattering to the ground. With his other hand, he begins to slide Ferdinand’s tie loose from around his throat—

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, and reaches up—grasps Hubert by his wrists. A reflexive response. They both freeze, gazes meeting out of surprise. Hubert’s pulse drums in his ears. Then he drops his hands away and takes a step back.

Goodness. Had he really thought to—? True, Ferdinand had given him permission to touch him to the extent that was necessary for this plan, but this was surely beyond the bounds of acceptability.

“Um.” Hubert reaches for the clasps of his own cloak. “If you wish to . . . dishevel yourself. Somewhat. It would help.”

Ferdinand nods, silent, and Hubert begins to unfasten buttons and buckles on his own outerwear. As he works, he risks a glance at Ferdinand, in time to see gloved fingers slip loose one button of his white shirt, revealing lightly freckled flesh beneath. Some unholy noise lurches out of Hubert, and he thinks he might have swallowed his own tongue to suppress it.

“I—guh.”

Ferdinand pauses, frowning. Hubert shucks off his cloak and coat, because he is really not equipped for coherent thought. The plan. Yes. He needs to convey the plan.

“There should be a patrol coming to investigate any moment now.” Hubert strangles the thick fabric of his cloak in both hands, which seems to help keep his voice level. “When they do, stay quiet and follow me.”

Ferdinand’s fingers dance down toward the next button of his shirt. His vest is undone, and Hubert resists a sudden urge to throw his cape over his own face to keep himself from looking. “I thought the idea was for us to be seen?”

“No, the idea is for us to be suspected. The evidence here, possibly the briefest glimpse of us as we flee—nothing more. Anything more will look too obvious. We don’t want the guards to actually stop us.”

Ferdinand nods and, his discarded jacket and vest bundled under one arm, simply watches Hubert expectantly.

An inconvenient memory surfaces, then. The taste of too much champagne; the feel of hot skin exposed to cold night air, skin flushed from waltzing, from entertaining possibilities that cannot be. Sharp freckled collarbones and a pulse dancing under his lips—

“Must you really look at me like that?” Hubert says, gruffer than he intends to. But it’s necessary to crush those thoughts, set them on fire and send their ashes sifting down the darkest depths of his mind. If only he could excise them completely.

Ferdinand blinks; his open expression is gone, then, a door slamming in Hubert’s face. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Like some imbecilic mooning maiden.” His upper lip curls. “I appreciate you ‘getting into the role’ but you needn’t waste the effort on me.”

Ferdinand huffs. “Well! Forgive me for my commitment to my role.”

Unfortunately, Ferdinand’s petulant expression isn’t much of an improvement—nose upturned, lower lip jutted, arms crossed as he stalwartly refuses to look Hubert’s way. He supposes it’s just Ferdinand’s face that’s intolerable. For all her infinite wisdom and craftiness, even Lady Edelgard could not have predicted how torturous an assignment this would be. But there is no underestimating the torture Ferdinand von Aegir is capable of inflicting with his . . . everything.

And it hasn’t even been a day. He’s expected to endure weeks of this, if not months? Hubert just might have to gnaw his own arm off to escape.

Finally, finally, _finally_, there’s the distant creak of the cathedral door they left ajar. “Who goes there?” a voice booms.

“And there’s our cue.” Hubert starts to hold out a hand to help Ferdinand hop down from the altar, but thinks better of it and turns away. He bashes his shoulder against the side exit from the chapel—needing the noise to draw the guards to the scene they’ve carefully established—and ushers Ferdinand into the dark stairwell before them. As hoped, the sound of greaves on marble tile reaches the chapel’s doorway just as he pulls the stair doors shut, and bars them from their side. Ideally, the guards caught a glimpse of mussed hair, chest stripped down to white undershirt.

“Now what?” Ferdinand hisses from the total darkness.

Hubert steps down and crashes up against a muscular soldier’s chest, inadequately concealed beneath a thin blouse. He jerks away, but not quickly enough that his fingers don’t catch what must be the firm curve of a chiseled pectoral.

“Err. Now we flee.” _As quickly as humanly possible._

They rush down stone stairs in total darkness until they come up against another door, which Hubert hastily unlocks. They’re on the other side of the cathedral now, back out in the starlight, Ferdinand’s face flushed and hair sticking to his cheeks.

“And—” Hubert tries to steady his breathing. “And that’s our work done for tonight.” _Thank all that is unholy._

Ferdinand worries his lower lip with his teeth. “Well. What comes next, then?”

“Next, we vehemently deny whatever rumors surface. And then . . .” Hubert swallows, suddenly chilly. “Then we stage our grand escape. I haven’t yet devised a scenario for that part, though.”

A slow smile spreads on Ferdinand’s face, and Hubert fights the urge to answer it. “It has been some time since Her Majesty held festivities for the troops, has it not?” Ferdinand asks. “A formal dinner, music, dancing . . .”

Hubert frowns with a growing sense of dread. “Of course not. We haven’t been able to afford such extravagance—”

“But it would be a perfect way to celebrate the arrival of spring.” Ferdinand’s gaze dances in the starlight. “And it would also be the perfect venue for a spectacular row, filled with witnesses.”

“I . . . I see your point.” And perhaps he, too, is guilty of underestimating Ferdinand. Not that there’s any use telling _him_ that—it’d only make him all the more insufferable. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”

“Perfect.”

They stare at each other for a moment. The bridge back to the monastery awaits them, and then their separate rooms. Returning together would be much too obvious. But Hubert’s feet are firmly rooted; he can’t quite bring himself . . .

“You go first,” Hubert says. “You’re more likely to make a racket anyway with all your . . . prancing.”

Ferdinand huffs at him, then starts to step away, and it’s like an invisible thread tugs Hubert forward, not ready to part just yet. Absurd.

Ferdinand stops, though, and turns toward him, eyes soft. “Um. Good night, Hubert.”

Hubert is staring much too long; he turns his attention toward the high parapets. “Good night.”

A moment passes, then Ferdinand is gone, just a figure cutting a cruel shadow across the bridge. If he could only stay that way—someone far outside Hubert’s orbit, much too far away to taunt him—then Hubert might have been just fine.

If he’s to survive this mission, he needs to inoculate himself. Build up a resistance to the ridiculousness that is Ferdinand von Aegir.

Yet if the past five years have shown him anything, it’s that Ferdinand’s particular flavor of poison is impossible to cure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** a dangerous dance.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Slight CW** for vague, implied homophobia/toxic masculinity bullshit because this is Bad Dads: the Anime

“Ooh, Ferdie, is that a new tie pin?” Dorothea coos, tucking a freshly-purchased bundle of tulips into her basket. “I don’t think I’ve seen that one before.”

“Uhh.” Ferdinand fingers said pin self-consciously. He should be drawing attention to the missing one, he knows, but at the same time try to conceal it. “I thought I would—uhh, try something new . . .”

Dorothea smiles to herself, regarding him with those dangerously keen eyes. “Seems to be a lot of that lately.”

They move to the next row of village market stalls. Each week, he journeys here with Dorothea to shop for additional provisions and small luxuries to raise their friends’ morale, then they take a late breakfast at an outdoor café on the village square. Today, though, they’re additionally looking for new accoutrements and decorations to accompany the Spring Feast Her Majesty is hosting. Ferdinand has a secondary goal in acquiring nourishments for his and Hubert’s intended late-night flight from the monastery and the long ride southeast out of the Oghma Mountains. But Dorothea’s gaze is ever-watchful; he couldn’t buy so much as a second wedge of brie without an interrogation.

He’s still uncertain what gossip has been spreading about him through the troops. Hubert had indicated their scene at the cathedral had been interpreted in the intended manner, but Dorothea hasn’t yet questioned him about it. Not directly, in any case. He touches his throat, recalling that night a little too vividly. When Hubert had unwound his tie, long fingers trailing against the thin skin of his neck—

Goddess. He’d thought—well. He’d thought Hubert intended to leave a mark on _him_.

Best not to linger on that miscalculation any longer. Not that he’d had much luck chasing it from his thoughts all week. In their haste to prepare for tonight, they haven’t had occasion to stage any further scenes beyond the occasional longing glances in council meetings, or brush of arms in the dining hall. But all that is about to change drastically, and for all he tries to ignore it, there will be certain . . . logistics . . . they’ll need to work out.

Ferdinand’s fingers flutter over the tie pin for a second longer before falling. “A-anyone you’re hoping to dance with this evening?”

“Ugh. Don’t get me started.”

Ferdinand tilts his head, encouraging her to do just that.

“I thought this one knight, Gustav, was getting sweet on me. But then I tried dropping hints about taking me to dinner and I swear, it was like flirting with a brick wall.”

Ferdinand pauses in front of a booth of ribbons and lace skeins; his free hand trails over a thick strip of velvet chartreuse. “Gustav? Well, there’s a reason for that. He isn’t your type.”

“Oh? _Oh_.” Dorothea giggles. “He’s not the one—”

“No!” Ferdinand blurts, but he can feel his cheeks flushing. “I’ve, um. Just heard stories.”

She waits expectantly, but instead Ferdinand holds up the ribbon. “Thoughts?”

“It suits you. But you should get flowers to match.”

“Then maybe I shall,” Ferdinand mumbles, and has a rather inconvenient thought of steady gloved hands tucking a flower into his gathered hair.

“In any case,” Dorothea continues as he pays for the ribbon, “it’s not like _she_’s going to notice anything or anyone who isn’t the professor. So I guess I’d better figure something out.”

“I am terribly sorry about that.” Ferdinand tucks the ribbon into his basket, then gently steers them toward the café. “All of us from the academy seem somewhat cursed in that regard.”

Of their core group of eight, he can only come close to confirming a dalliance between Byleth and Edelgard. There’s a whiff of affection off of Caspar and Linhardt, but Linhardt’s soporific qualities seem to dampen any overt clues. Petra seems oblivious to Dorothea’s occasional flirtations, Bernadetta would rather climb a tree than have a conversation about matters of the heart, and then Hubert—

No, Hubert rather adamantly would not be taking up with anyone, would he? As if he’s even had the offer! So Ferdinand assumes. So Ferdinand would like to think.

Ferdinand suppresses a groan and busies himself with ordering their food: eggs scrambled with fresh goat cheese and herbs, and a pitcher of refreshments to share. As the server departs, he takes a seat at one of the outdoor tables.

“What about you?” Dorothea asks, sitting opposite him. “I gotta say, Ferdie, I’ve been hearing the _juiciest _stories—”

Ferdinand doesn’t need to feign the sudden heat on his face. “N-no you have not—”

“Oh, yes, I have.” She leans forward, eyes dazzling. “And not about your dashing knight, either.”

Oh, this is far too much. “I have _told_ you! We went for _one_ ride. _One_. I spread out a carefully selected picnic, and the ingrate did nothing but complain the whole time. About the weather, the vista, the nourishments, everything. Who doesn’t like fig preserves?”

“So he didn’t capture your fancy?”

“Goddess, no. And that was almost a year ago, anyway.” Ferdinand winces. It had been a stupid whim to invite Elric for a picnic in the first place. It was only that—he supposes it was a rather stupid reason, now that he thinks about it. He’d gotten into a shouting row with Hubert over some idiotic piece of military procedure he can’t recall now, and Hubert said something taunting to the effect of “No wonder all your arranged marriages withered on the vine,” and then Elric had simply been there, flirting obnoxiously with Ferdinand as he had been for several months, and he knew damned well Hubert was always either watching or having him watched anyway—

“I hear you like the tall, dark, and stabby ones these days, anyhow.” And she levels a pointed look at him.

Thankfully, their pitcher of champagne and fresh-squeezed orange juice arrive just then, and Ferdinand busies himself with a gulp while he tries to formulate a response. Should he outright deny it? Is it less believable if he teases there’s a truth to her claim?

“_Ferdie,_” Dorothea wheedles. “You know you can tell me.”

“It’s . . . a bit of a touchy subject,” Ferdinand finally says. Yes, that’s the right approach—he needs to focus on the conflict with Her Majesty. “It would seem I’ve misunderstood certain, uh, expectations placed on me and my role as general.”

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to keep drinking so you can explain.”

“I—really—shouldn’t.” Ferdinand’s heart is pounding. Goddess, is this how Hubert feels every time he carries out a subterfuge mission? “It’s only that—well.”

Dorothea leans forward. Champagne glass held aloft. And yes, it’s the perfect opportunity to seal their fate, to spur their plan forward.

But it’s _also_ an excellent opportunity for a cold aperitif of revenge.

Ferdinand takes another sip of his drink. “Let us just say that _some_one in Her Majesty’s administration has a bit of a persecution complex, and is a bit too fond of denying themselves.” He grins mischievously. “If they really want to prove they’re more than a lapdog, then a grand gesture wouldn’t be unappreciated.”

Dorothea laughs; clinks her glass to his. “I do like the sound of that.”

* * *

“And you’re certain you recall which book in my office corresponds to which cipher set, depending on the origin—”

“Hubert—”

“And for our communiques with the other Derdriu contacts. You recall the proper codes, yes? Once we are established, we’ll use garlands on the door to signal whether there is a message waiting—”

“Hubert, please—”

“And your shipments of tinctures. I’ve pre-arranged for six months in advance, which should be _more_ than sufficient, but just in case, I do not wish you to endure any discomfort from the lingering effects of the reconstruction—”

“Hubert, _please_, I’m begging you.”

Edelgard tosses down the thick stack of papers he’s thrust at her and props her chin on one fist. Hubert stares down at his hands, laced together in his lap, and tries to suck down air that won’t come.

“Hubert,” she says again, gentler this time. “Look at me, old friend.”

His muscles unwind somewhat at that, and he lifts his chin.

“It is because of your diligence and care that I’ll be able to function without you for a time. Take comfort in that.”

She smiles; it’s the deepest smile he’s seen from her in years—at least, that the professor didn’t pluck from her. And perhaps she is right, that there is a grain of truth to their lies. He _does_ envy Byleth for how easily she won a spot at Edelgard’s other side. It’s no longer solely his ideas that flow into her ear.

But it’s unfair of him to be jealous, and he knows it, even if he doesn’t feel the certainty of that knowledge. Her love for Byleth is nothing that he can aspire toward, nor would even want for himself if he could. And their bond together—it cannot be compared to his lifelong bond of loyalty and service for his lady. She is, he grudgingly admits, permitted to _be_ in love. It is something she has earned a thousand times over, and to see her happy with the flush of it should be enough.

So he cannot name the dissonance that clangs through him at every glance between them, every touch, every smiling sigh his lady makes with Byleth surely on her mind. If it is not jealousy, then he cannot even begin to grasp what it might be.

“Hubert,” Edelgard says again. “May I . . . ask you something?”

His ribs feel like they’re knitting together in preparation for a blow, but he nods. “Always, my lady.”

“How are you feeling about all this? Be honest with me.” As he opens his mouth, she adds hastily—“About—your ruse. With Ferdinand.”

His grip on his own hands tightens, strangling gloved fingers. “It has been . . . tolerable so far.”

“Are you certain?” Her violet eyes sparkle, mischievous. “Because I recall you telling me once—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snarls. So vehemently she sits back, one eyebrow quirked. “Our work—_your_ work—is too important to jeopardize with—with—” He clenches his jaw. “Distractions.”

“Is that what you think the professor is to me?” she asks coolly. “A distraction?”

He curses inwardly. There is no good answer here. “N-no. You have more than earned leave to . . .” He forces one hand to relax; spreads trembling fingers out on his thigh. “You deserve to be happy.”

“And you do not?” she asks. And before he can argue—“I cannot be your whole life, for the entirety of your life. That isn’t fair to either of us, friend. I want you to be happy, as well.”

He turns away from her, toward the stained-glass windows—a dapple of red, blue, gold. “Perhaps there will be time for me to consider such things once the war is won.”

“Do you really wish to wait that long?” Edelgard asks. “It seems cruel to ask someone to wait indefinitely for you.”

“I’m not asking anyone—”

“Hubert.”

She stands; circles the desk to move behind him. Rests one hand on his shoulder. He makes himself relax. Had he really been coiled so tightly? Flames. What an embarrassing slip of control.

“Tell me honestly. As my oldest friend. Do you really feel nothing for Ferdinand now?”

And he cannot—will not—lie to his lady. But it is not a lie if it is the essence of truth—a thing that must be true, that he will _make_ true, no matter the cost. “I have . . . come to respect him considerably more than I once did,” he concedes.

“Respect.” She laughs softly. “Is _that_ what you called that time—”

“Please, my lady—”

“As if you were confessing high treason to me—”

“I’m—I’m being honest!” _As honest as I can be, with you and with myself_. “I respect him. He is not nearly so disastrous and dangerous to you or our cause as he once was. You might even say he is an asset, now.” Hubert closes his eyes, and pays no mind to the way his breath quivers in his lungs, a flame threatening to snuff out. “But I cannot confess to any attraction to the man. He would be an insufferable lover, needy and demanding of one’s time and attention. Distracting with all his . . . hobbies. Passions.—The man writes poetry, for saints’ sake; he fences and sings and embroiders and makes floral arrangements, he drops everything to rush to his friends’ aid no matter the hour and makes plans within plans for his ludicrous goals, it’s just_ exhausting_—”

“Clearly you’ve thought this all out,” Edelgard says, smirk apparent in her tone.

“My _point_ is, you needn’t fear me becoming distracted from my purpose. Your mission. I can hardly think of a less suitable partner. Not that I have need of one at all.”

“Well, I do hope you’ll reconsider that last, should you wish it someday. But very well, friend. I trust you.” She gives his shoulder a quick squeeze before stepping back. “But I also won’t take any offense should you change your mind.”

“_Please,_ my lady.” Hubert rubs one temple. “We’ve already discussed it far more than is warranted.”

“All right. Well. Whatever happens tonight and in the coming weeks . . .” She sighs. “My thoughts will be with you. Both of you. I cannot think of anyone more capable; of anyone more trustworthy in whose hands I can place the very fate of the empire. Thank you.”

He closes his eyes with a slow exhale. “It is an honor, as always, to serve you.”

“I suppose we’d best get on with it, then,” she says.

Hubert nods, and collects himself. “Whatever happens, my lady, know that I shall forever keep your best interests at the fore of our work.”

“Oh, Hubert.” She shakes her head. “I would tell you to put your own safety, and Ferdinand’s, first. But I know you won’t listen anyway.”

They face each other for a brief moment; years of understanding and empathy lie between them. He bows, and she offers her hand. A farewell.

Hubert presses his lips to gloved knuckles, sealing in his oath. Whatever happens, he shall always have this—this trust, this cause, this bond. Something to guide him, no matter what this mission brings.

“Ready?” Edelgard whispers.

Hubert nods, not trusting himself to speak.

She squares her shoulders and begins to stride toward the chamber doors, then bellows, along the way—“And do not even think to flaunt your—your complete and utter disregard for me tonight.” She reaches for the door handle and wrenches it open. “Embarrass me like this one more time and it will be your last act as my minister!”

“Then perhaps you need to reconsider your priorities, _emperor_, and whether your trust is misplaced in that . . . that . . . emotionless automaton.”

Edelgard folds her arms. “Are you speaking of the professor or yourself, von Vestra?”

With a huff, he turns and storms past anxious guards.

Turns into the stairwell. Slumps against the wall. Gasps for air.

There’s darkness creeping in around his vision; all the fear and uncertainty of what comes next. And through it all, he has no one to rely on, to trust in, but _Ferdinand von Aegir_. He’d be better off fending for himself.

But it’s too late, it’s much too late. For everything, it seems.

At least things were simpler, back in their days at the academy. When they were only just carving their bloody way toward a new era. But that was a dangerous trap, believing the future was limitless. That way lay incautious words whispered; hands too tightly grasped. A flutter of moonlight on gauze and dewy skin. An unseemly desire to possess things that were not his to possess.

And are not, still. He’d do well to remember it.

“Hubie? Is that you skulking around up there?”

Hubert jolts forward; peers down the stairwell to find Dorothea at the base, hands on hips. “Miss Arneault.”

“Get down here. I’d like a Word.”

Hubert winces at the capitalization apparent in her tone, but he makes his way down and offers her a curt nod. “How are the preparations proceeding for tonight’s dinner?”

“Oh, it’s going splendid. Nothing you need to worry about. We’ve got it covered.” She slides her arm around his and yanks him out into the gardens. “No, what _you_ need to worry about is not coming off like a _total ass_ to a very certain someone for once in your life.”

Hubert raises his eyebrows before remembering that Ferdinand had ventured into town with her earlier. Damnation. How had Ferdinand handled an interrogation from Dorothea without him there to coach? Surely he hadn’t botched this up _too_ badly. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, Ferdie tried that with me, too. But I’ve heard the rumors. I know how you idiots have been pining over each other for the past _five years_—”

Hubert sputters. Tries to think how he would react if he really were in love with Ferdinand, but trying badly to conceal it. “I beg your pardon—”

“Oh, my goddess, _do not give me that shit_, you two could not be mooning any more. You already gave him a whole line about responsibility and duty, didn’t you? Goddess, no wonder the poor boy’s so knotted up over you even now. You’re lucky you’re getting a real chance this time, so don’t fuck this up.”

Hubert sighs loudly; wrenches his arm away from hers. He did just have a shouting match with Edelgard; a slight concession might be warranted, if he’s in a foul and vengeful mood. Though he is far from thrilled about all the implications lurking behind her words regarding responsibility and duty. As if this entire ruse isn’t about him forsaking exactly that. Just what did Ferdinand say?

“Very well. Supposing there was something for me to ‘fuck up’—what would you suggest?”

Dorothea reaches up and pats his cheek. “Oh, Hubie, I’m so glad you asked.”

* * *

Ferdinand checks and double checks the saddlebags he’s packed in his room and hidden under the bed. His space, as usual, is a disaster of discarded armaments and half-read books and half-written journals and clothing he must launder himself because for some reason it’s considered “wasteful” to employ one’s valet at the frontlines of a war, but he figures the mess will make their departure look all the more convincing and unplanned.

Checks the saddlebags one last time. Checks his hair in the mirror: the top third gathered into a high ponytail with the chartreuse ribbon he acquired at market, the rest loose, with some silky strands left free at his temples. Checks his outfit, a rather devious piece of work, if he might say so. His most comfortable brown riding breeches matched perfectly to a chartreuse velvet jacket that serves as an effective windbreak for nighttime rides, yet to all appearances, he’s merely an overdressed dandy looking to overindulge on the champagne and perhaps stand a little too close to Her Majesty’s pet shadow for a little too long—

Well. That or he looks like a foppish windbag.

Ferdinand scowls in the mirror, then locks his room and makes his way to the great hall to enjoy his last night as a general of the Adrestian Army—if only, he hopes, for a short while.

He’s fashionably late, and the festivities are already raging when he arrives—the buffet of spring lamb and fresh vegetables and confection dwindling, the military chamber ensemble sawing away at a spry spring overture. Her Majesty feasts at the head table, the professor beside her, and as Ferdinand approaches to pay his respects, Edelgard’s eyes narrow.

“Von Aegir,” Edelgard says frostily.

Even knowing it is an act, Ferdinand feels the old twinge of his childhood, desperate for approval, for respect. “I believe ‘General’ is the correct address. _Your Majesty_.”

A few of the others seated at Edelgard’s table tilt their heads at that, but she stays deathly still. “I suppose we’ll see about that, won’t we?”

He forces a bow and turns on his heel to find a seat amongst the crowd. Stares are like embers on his skin, and more than once he catches a thread of whisper. His former classmates, fellow soldiers, subordinates—it burns, to know they must be thinking dreadful things about him right now. Made even more dreadful, he supposes, because of who else they’re thinking those things about. Von Vestra has always been seen by the army as some barely-tamed predator prowling among them, not to be provoked; if one encounters him in the shadows, it’s because one’s fate has already been cast. The idea of someone willingly seeking out his company—in defiance of the emperor, no less—

But Ferdinand shakes his head. It’s a terribly unfair assessment of Hubert. Not a _wrong_ one, he concedes, but incomplete. Von Vestra is all those things, but he is thoughtful, too; careful and clever and loyal. Too loyal. And yet in those brief moments over the years when he’s seen him without his armor firmly in place, there’s been a—tenderness. One that’s always made Ferdinand wonder who he might be without need for those masks.

He’s thankfully spared from any more such unwelcome thoughts by a firm hand at his elbow. “Ferdie,” that voice coos, both smooth and snarled like rough silk. “You’re looking particularly stunning tonight.” A slight hesitation. “A divine herald of spring.”

And the initial sigh that had lodged in Ferdinand’s chest dissipates at that. “All right, now I know you’re trying too hard.”

He turns to face Hubert, and stumbles. There is something . . . luminous about the man, his alabaster skin dewy and glowing, one visible eye both bright yet exacting. His hair is freshly styled, and in his dark suit—at once both simpler yet even more tightly tailored than his minister’s uniform—he’s tucked a deep burgundy dahlia into his lapel.

And his mouth, which is rather inconveniently located at eye level for Ferdinand—his soft lips—just a hint of color shades them as he worries the lower one with his teeth—

“Am I?” Hubert asks. “Well. You did request poetry, did you not?”

Ferdinand realizes his mouth has come open, so he firmly shuts it.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much a way with verse, my dear. But I did find this for you.” He produces a carefully twined boutonniere: an orange carnation nestled amongst tiny yellow and white buds Ferdinand doesn’t recognize. “It reminds me of those eyes of yours you so wished for me to rhapsodize.”

“Oh,” Ferdinand manages, feeling an uncomfortable warmth rise on his face.

“I do hope this is an acceptable substitute. If I may . . . ?”

Ferdinand nods, rather than risk spewing some idiotic poetry of his own. Wouldn’t want to lay it on too thick, after all. They are supposed to be _clandestine_.

With a fragile smile, Hubert slips gloved fingers around the lapel of Ferdinand’s jacket and carefully teases apart the narrow buttonhole there. Ferdinand doesn’t dare breathe; he can only stare at those nimble fingers as they work. Hubert threads the boutonniere’s stem through the opening with annoying tenderness before pinning it in place.

Hubert’s hand lingers on his lapel, then; Ferdinand tips his head up to risk a glance at him.

He should compliment Hubert in return. Apologize for being so thoughtless as to not bring a similar token of affection. Grasp Hubert’s collar, pull him close . . .

“Thought of that one all yourself, did you?” Ferdinand asks instead, pitching his voice low.

Hubert flinches; lowers his gaze. “Well. I had a bit of assistance from Dorothea.”

“Ahh.” Ferdinand blushes harder. “But that’s a good sign, isn’t it? That she’s bought our ruse?”

“Indeed.” Hubert swallows; the music shifts around them, gliding into a delicate waltz. “A-are we being watched?” Hubert asks, then, a little sharper—“And try not to make it so bloody obvious you’re looking around.”

_Oh, thank the Goddess_. There’s the Hubert he knows. For a moment it felt like he’d stumbled onto a faerie path and gotten lost in a strange mirror world.

“I wouldn’t say the _entire_ hall is staring. But we have attracted some attention.” At present, he can see Bernadetta over Hubert’s shoulder, her eyes so wide they look fit to burst.

“Perfect.” Hubert lets out an audible breath, then extends one gloved hand to Ferdinand. “Sh-shall we dance?”

Oh, no. No. It’s much too familiar. Much too painful. It isn’t right that five years have done nothing to dull that ache. It must be some terrible character defect of his, or perhaps some tragic ailment that prevents his wounds from healing, no matter how long he gives them. He catches himself drawing back, even though there’s nothing he wants to do less.

Hubert drops his hands. Eyes shuttering with a grimace. “Ferdinand—”

“No. Right. I know. We ought—” Ferdinand’s teeth click together. He doesn’t need to be scolded about being a professional—and from von Vestra, of all people! “Yes. Let’s. But let me lead, this time.”

Hubert suppresses a smirk, the bastard. “As you wish.”

Everything falls away around them. Ferdinand can barely feel the strike of his feet against marble as he maneuvers them onto the dancing space that has been cleared. The waltz is only a distant hum. There are only two hands clasped together. Then his hand at Hubert’s waist; Hubert’s hand at his shoulder. Both searingly hot. Pale eyes watching him, expectant, beneath a dark sheath of hair. Chests that rise and fall as one.

There is only an echo of more careless times, more carefree times, when war only lived in musty books and his hands weren’t soaked in blood. He was unconquerable then, boundless in his hunger for the whole world, and he thought that surely everyone felt this way, that surely even Hubert could see there was no need to fear . . .

“Ferdinand?” Hubert murmurs, chin over Ferdinand’s shoulder, long legs gliding in perfect flow with his own.

Ferdinand blinks. He wants to pull back and see Hubert’s face, but he’s afraid of what he’ll find.

“Are you with me?” Hubert asks. Lips closer to his ear, now.

“I—Sorry. Yes.” His mouth feels stuffed with gauze.

“Just making sure.” They rotate slowly, step by step. “It’s . . . almost sentimental, isn’t it?”

Ferdinand’s face crumples. “If you mean to taunt me—”

“N-no. I don’t mean . . .” The thumb at his shoulder sweeps over his collarbone. “Only that it’s—it’s nice.”

Ferdinand grits his teeth. Hubert von Vestra doesn’t call anything _nice_.

The music is soaring, lifting them both. Hubert pulls his head back so they’re face to face, and those exacting eyes capture his. Ferdinand is trapped. Trapped in this scheme, in this awful game of pretend, in the arms of this impossibly cruel man he must now trust with his life. But staring at that face, those lips slack and parted, he can almost forget everything that’s brought them here, everything they must face still. He can almost forgive him.

And thinking that—is the kind of cruelty only Ferdinand can inflict on himself.

“—Are we drawing out the intended reaction?” Ferdinand asks. He needs those eyes looking elsewhere. He needs to remember what this is. Write it on the inside of his eyelids, if he has to.

“Oh. I hadn’t . . .” With a swallow, Hubert looks away, carefully turning them even as Ferdinand leads to gain a better view of their surroundings. “Well. There are certainly quite a few people trying hard not to stare.”

Ferdinand smiles in spite of himself. “Probably in shock at the very idea Her Majesty’s snake might have a heart.”

Hubert’s fingers twitch within his grasp. There’s one point claimed.

“Well. I did have a reputation to maintain.” He smiles wistfully. “Suppose that’s all gone, now.”

“I am sure you’ll endure.”

Hubert looks back at him. Smile twitching his lips. Ferdinand’s blood is singing; he feels at once both cornered and very much in control. The thumb at his shoulder drags a slow circle over the top of Ferdinand’s coat; skims the edge of his collar.

“A terrible hardship, I assure you,” Hubert says.

The music winds down; the waltz comes to an end. Ferdinand stops belatedly and their legs are tangled together until they quickly jump away.

“Um.” Ferdinand drops his hands. “Shall we—”

“The—the terrace.” Hubert glances over the other dancers, some couples dissipating as new couples rush to the floor. “Step out there. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Ferdinand can only nod, and quickly turn away.

* * *

Hubert busies himself at the refreshments table, straightening napkins and removing emptied bottles before serving himself. Thankfully. He needs a distraction from all those utterly asinine things he’s just said. As if he couldn’t dam up that spring flood of sentimentality and nonsense, all because of—what? A waltz?

No, it must have been Ferdinand’s fault. If he hadn’t reacted the way he did, blushing and sighing like a lovelorn heroine, it wouldn’t have been nearly so satisfying. The man was too easy to draw a reaction from, though fortunately, it’s exactly what they need for this particular ruse. Clearly little has changed in the past five years, though now Hubert can’t help but wonder if he still sighs the same, if that blush still reaches all the way down his chest—

But that is _not_ a helpful line of inquiry, so he tries to set it aside as he fetches them both flutes of champagne.

Edelgard is doing an effective job of glowering at him from her table, but he makes a show of pointedly ignoring it as he moves toward the terrace doors. Dorothea catches his eye from nearby—arches an eyebrow in question, surely wanting to know if the boutonniere was well received. Permitting himself a slight blush, he nods.

Then, shielding one hand, she gestures with the other toward Edelgard. Another question. Even though it pains him, he shakes his head, and exaggerates a frown.

Dorothea rolls her eyes and makes a rude gesture with the shielded hand.

Hubert stifles a snort and hurries toward the terrace doors. As long as Dorothea’s buying into their ruse, then that’s nearly all the work done for them.

The crisp night air cools his flushed face as he steps out onto the terrace. Ferdinand is at the railing, gazing out at the moonlight rippling across the pond beneath them. His hair is luminous as ever, though the way it partially lifts up from his neck is more than a little distracting. He looks . . . pensive. Lonely, in a way Hubert has made a point not to see him before. For his endless smiles and laughter and bravado, there’s another Ferdinand who seems to ache, and it feels wrong—blasphemous, somehow—to catch a glimpse of that man uninvited.

Hubert is sure to shuffle his boots across the floor so as not to startle him; draws up alongside him and offers him a glass.

“Oh. Thank you, minister.”

Hubert’s jaw clenches. “My love.”

Ferdinand’s easy smile returns as he blushes. “Yes. Sorry. My love.” Smile dimming, he extends his glass, and they toast. “To a successful mission.”

“Successful and swift,” Hubert says.

They drink in companionable silence before setting the flutes aside on the railing. There are a million things Hubert wants to ask; a million more he doesn’t dare say. But there will be more than enough time for that, he supposes, once their mission is underway. For now, he wants to bask in the effervescence of the champagne and Ferdinand’s nearness, the man who is to be his sole anchor to himself throughout the coming mission. Despite his many flaws, he hopes he can serve as the same for Ferdinand.

“Thank you, by the way,” Ferdinand says quietly. Gestures to the boutonniere. “It was a nice touch.”

“The credit is all yours. You’re the one who cemented the rumors in Dorothea’s mind.” He reaches up; brushes his fingers to Ferdinand’s temple. His index finger grazes a loose lock of orange framing his face, loose from the partial ponytail. “I . . . I assume your hair was her doing, as well.”

Ferdinand’s face flushes dark. “Hardly. I wore my hair long as a boy, too, I will have you know.”

Hubert’s finger starts to curl around the lock. “Did you? Ah. I think I might recall that now.”

“I was perfectly capable of styling it for myself. Up until my father made me cut it off. When I was eleven, I think.” Ferdinand’s gaze turns back toward the pond, his expression unreadable again. “He forbade me a lot of things then. My frequent visits to the opera, singing lessons, the plays I used to put on with my sisters . . .”

Hubert brushes the lock back, something protective, vengeful thrumming in his blood. His thumb lingers at Ferdinand’s temple as his fingers curl along his scalp. “But why . . . ?”

“Said they were unsuitable pursuits for a young man. All that rot about duty, virility, might.” Ferdinand smiles sadly. “Wasted breath, if you ask me.”

Not for the first—or dozenth—time, Hubert contemplates the ease with which he could arrange for the former Duke von Aegir to meet an unfortunate demise while under house arrest. “I’m sorry.” Absently, his fingers stroke along Ferdinand’s scalp, and there’s a soft inhale of air. He should stop, but—No. No ‘but.’ This is their game to play aggressively, now.

“Don’t be.” Ferdinand blinks, clearing his gaze, and turns fully toward Hubert. “Because now he’s rotting in confinement, like he deserves. And I’m . . . here.”

“Here,” Hubert echoes. “Yes.”

His thumb trails over Ferdinand’s cheekbone; his mouth goes soft. Ferdinand’s chin lifts, and the sight of his face, so open, so trusting—

Hubert suppresses a grimace. “I am sorry. Truly. For before.” He closes his eyes, but can’t seem to stop the idiotic words from pouring out of him. “The last time we danced.”

“Before. Well.” Ferdinand sighs. “It wasn’t all bad. Mostly the, uh. The end.”

But he can’t apologize for that. A choice he’d make again and again. A choice he really should be making now.

But it’s only an act, after all—

“Hubert?” Ferdinand murmurs, and when did he bring his face so close to Ferdinand’s, when did his lips go so soft—

“Mm?”

“Are—are we being watched?”

“Oh. Uh. There are eyes everywhere—”

“Oh.” Ferdinand tilts his head up. Moistens his lips with a flash of pink tongue. “Erm. Well—If so—maybe we ought to—I mean—”

Then the terrace doors fly open, and it might be the first time Hubert has ever harbored truly murderous thoughts toward Her Majesty as she storms through them, Byleth trailing close behind.

And Dorothea. And Caspar. And General Ladislava. And Elric, that execrable knight—

“_Minister_,” Edelgard bellows. “General.”

Hubert suppresses his initial instinct—to recoil from Ferdinand as if stung—and instead loops his arm around Ferdinand’s shoulder. Ferdinand squeaks as Hubert pulls him to his side, but then puts his own arm around Hubert’s waist.

Oh. Hubert stands up straighter at that.

“Your Majesty,” Hubert says smoothly. “Is something the matter?”

“Aside from the gross disrespect and disloyalty my two closest advisers are showing me?”

His overriding instinct is still to grovel, but he forces his chin high. “I wasn’t aware fraternization is strictly forbidden within the imperial army. Though I suppose I only have _your_ example to go by.” He cuts his gaze sharply toward Byleth.

Byleth’s eyes widen. At least she’s gotten better at suppressing her grin.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, von Vestra. And you, von Aegir—you should realize how precarious your own position is, considering your _lineage_.”

“I—” Ferdinand’s voice is pitched several registers too high. He shivers; tries again. “I have obeyed every one of the laws you’ve set forth, no matter how unconscionable. But you’ve gone too far, Edelgard.”

“I need my lead advisers’ minds unencumbered. Their loyalties unquestionable. And instead you flaunt my perfectly reasonable request—you shove your lack of discretion in my face—”

“Just as you have done with this near-stranger you’ve chosen to replace me!” Hubert cries.

Gasps ripple through the onlookers. Hubert’s lungs burn, certain he’s gone too far. Ferdinand’s fingers are digging into his waist as he buries his chin against Hubert’s shoulder. Carefully, Edelgard strides forward, shoulders back, stare lethal. Panic clenches in his gut, as he can’t even tell whether she’s feigning her rage anymore—

“You are hereby relieved of your duties. Both of you.” She spins on one heel. “We will discuss further punishment in the morning.”

Hubert’s pulse is pounding in his ears. The stars are too bright, too close, too unsteady, swirling around him. Only Ferdinand’s tight grip at his waist is keeping him upright.

Ladislava pats the keyring at her side. “Want me to take them into custody, Your Majesty?”

Edelgard pauses, one finger to her lips. Considering. “No. Not yet, anyway.” She fixes her gaze square on Hubert for what feels like the last time. “Never let it be said I am not merciful. Unlike some.”

He can’t help it—he buckles forward out of Ferdinand’s grip, dropping to one knee, as Edelgard sweeps from the terrace and back into the great hall. The crowd of onlookers reluctantly follow suit, aided by Dorothea, who shoots dirty looks at the lingerers.

Hubert’s head is swimming; his face burns as the reality of what they’re undertaking fully setting in at last. There is no going back. There is no more hoping she will change her mind. No more wishing he could do anything else.

But then Ferdinand is crouched in front of him, cradling Hubert’s face in gloved hands. Those bright eyes, so earnest and caring, search his, and for a brief, tipsy moment, he allows himself to be thankful that he isn’t here alone.

“Hubert. It’s all right.” Ferdinand’s hands are far too warm at the hinge of his jaw, at his gaunt cheeks. “We will get through this. Together.”

And for the first time, Hubert can’t say for certain whether Ferdinand is merely pretending.

For one reckless, panicked moment, he needs this moment to be real.

“Together,” Hubert confirms.

Gathers Ferdinand’s hands in his own.

Pulls them both to their feet.

“It’s time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** Past the point of no return.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hggrgggrg 8500-word chapter of agonizing emotional whiplash to write so I hope you'll forgive me the delay~
> 
> Thank you **SIGF** for the beta read on this beast!!

** _ETHEREAL MOON, 1180._ **

“And to support our house and von Aegir, I expect _all_ of you to attend,” Edelgard finishes, staring directly at Hubert.

There are a few assorted groans from their Black Eagles classmates all crammed into their house’s common room, but Hubert only stands there, jaw wrenched tight. A dancing competition. _Dancing_. Fódlan stands at a precipice of immense upheaval, and they’re being conscripted to watch that pompous von Aegir heir prance around the great hall all evening long.

“My lady,” Hubert says, approaching her as the rest of their class dissipates. “Surely we have more important matters to attend to?”

“Such as? I know you’ve finished your homework for the next several days, Hubert. And you’re off stable duty with von Aegir this week.”

And thank the void for small mercies such as that. “That’s not what I mean—”

“Besides. It should be no hardship for you to watch him prance around—”

“I don’t—You can’t—” Hubert grits his teeth; tries again. “You know perfectly well that is not what I mean, Your Highness.”

Edelgard examines him with a wide, impassive gaze. “We have done our part,” she says, voice dropping. “We must stand back and allow Solon his . . . projects.” Her mouth twists. “There is nothing we can do to—”

“Hey, Lady E!” a bubbly voice calls, and that wretched girl Monica comes bounding toward them both, looping her arm in Edelgard’s at once. “Oh. Von Vestra.”

Hubert’s upper lip twitches by way of greeting.

“Aren’t you _so_ excited for the ball in a few weeks?” Monica starts dragging Edelgard away. “Who do you think is gonna meet you at the Goddess Tower? Ew, I wonder if Prince Dimitri will ask you . . . I bet Hubert already did, didn’t he, the poor snake, what did you say?”

Hubert takes a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. Most of the school thinks he’s in love with his lady. They’re not wrong, but they also aren’t correct in the way they think. She understands that, at least. She understands him far too well.

Which is why that little jab still smarts, as though it were poison-tipped. Von Aegir is intolerable, bombastic, proud—not such a sycophant as his father, but otherwise, in every way his match. Which makes him dangerous to Lady Edelgard. As dangerous as a boy who sings to his horses when he grooms then can be.

Yes. It would be easy to write him off as a rambunctious fop. But his combative nature, zeal for competition, and tendency to fling himself full-heartedly into even the most trivial of pursuits could all too easily turn damaging to their goals, this bloody path they walk. It is only sensible, then, that Hubert must watch him at all times, for the first hint of danger.

And if one of those damned songs of his happens to get stuck in Hubert’s head such that he whistles it to himself—If that braggart’s face butts its way into his dreams, shouting his own name and Hubert’s alike as they find themselves in increasingly ludicrous scenarios—like the monastery sauna, or a dank crypt far beneath the earth, or a moonlit crumbling tower—If yet another of his dastardly gifts is forcing Hubert to awaken, angry and aroused, with nothing to spare him his utter humiliation but his own hand and that obsequious voice ringing in his head—

Maybe he could just strangle him and be done with it. One less contingency they’ll have to plan around, to be sure.

That evening they shuffle into the makeshift theatre seating placed around the edges of the Great Hall, and he ensconces himself at his lady’s left hand, as always. The White Heron Cup. He could be threatening the agricultural minister right now, or preparing a fresh batch of neurotoxins. Instead he must watch a slow succession of the Academy’s most insufferable students waltz their way around, and await the judges’ results.

Annette Fantine Dominic is first, representing the Blue Lions. Her steps prove agile, but her movements lack the necessary conviction. Hubert watches with the cold assessment they will need in the coming months to bring his lady’s plan to fruition. When it is time to take the Dominic lands, she should pose little threat.

Next is Raphael Kirsten of the Golden Deer, and, flames, what an interesting choice _that_ was on Claude’s behalf. He manages a halfway-decent promenade, but his movements are far too wide and overpowered for the refined steps of dance. But this is the Alliance, after all—too enamored with their own unorthodoxy and absurdity to care about the ways in which it makes them weak.

Claude catches his eye from across the room as Raphael concludes and the final contestant is called—smirks, tips one eyebrow. Hubert folds his arms as he slumps down into his chair.

The Black Eagles’ contestant takes the floor, amber eyes shining. His limbs are too gangly still, not done growing and yet somehow too big for him. His smile is petrified on his face. But he holds himself with perfect posture, with his chin high, and as the music begins, his eyes close.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

He might as well be drifting, a leaf winding downstream. But no, the music isn’t pulling him along—it’s a back and forth. Just as his lancework has shored up in recent months, muscles starting to show along his shoulders and back, von Aegir’s waltz steps, too, speak to a zealous practice.

Hubert grimaces. As if he’d expect anything less but total dedication from him.

Von Aegir concludes with a flourish, arms sweeping forward as if to dip an unseen partner down, and there’s a pearly sheen of sweat on his brow as he purses his lips toward the air, where there should be the pale, exposed throat of his dance partner—

The other Black Eagles erupt with applause, standing and cheering, and Edelgard thwacks Hubert on the arm to make him stand, but he cannot, he very, very much cannot. Von Aegir straightens and beams back at them, chest heaving, a little trickle of sweat at his temple, though when his gaze reaches Hubert, that smile stutters.

Good.

Edelgard drops back into her seat as the judges confer. “You could just ask him to the ball,” she mutters.

Hubert clenches a fist. “You can’t be serious, my lady.”

“Well, it would be better than . . . whatever this is you’re doing now, friend.” She grins. “Please don’t deny it.”

So he doesn’t, and says nothing at all.

Von Aegir is declared the victor, of course, and the professor steps forward to present him with his dancer’s garbs. Gauzy burgundy that looks so rich as von Aegir holds it up to him, so perfectly suited to his complexion, his bright hair. Golden bangles trailing from its hems and a collar as well.

And it’s von Aegir’s fault, as ever, that that night he dreams of that collar clicking shut around his own throat, that gauze slipping over freckled skin, hands clutching him as he’s dipped down and down and teeth dig into his neck—

So the next day Hubert asks Monica to the ball, because at least he can keep an eye on her that way, keep her away from his lady, and with her lip curled back, she grudgingly accepts.

* * *

** _GREAT TREE MOON, NOW._ **

Hubert is waiting for him in the shadows of the stables, standing over a crumpled guard. Ferdinand rears up, hands clenched tight around the handles of his saddlebags. “Hubert—” he hisses.

Hubert glares at him; folds up a handkerchief and tucks it into his jacket. “Merely a temporary status.” He looks Ferdinand over, brow furrowing. “You’re wearing the same thing from the ball?”

“It’s as practical as can be for a late-night exodus. Whereas you look dressed to terrify small children at the park.” He sniffs at Hubert’s rather shabby all-black attire.

“At least I was on time,” Hubert says, following Ferdinand as he makes his way into the stalls.

“You said an hour before dawn, and here I am.”

“We are now only fifty minutes before dawn—”

“Are we? Well.” Ferdinand supposes he did stop to say farewell to more than a few of the kittens that were prowling around the grounds. “Here. I’ve picked Avané for you. She’s gentle, but her endurance is admirable—”

“I don’t need to know her pedigree,” Hubert says, tossing his bags onto her saddle.

“Well, you should care about your horse! They will only care for you as much as you care for them. They deserve to be treated with respect.”

“I didn’t say I don't respect them.” Hubert grimaces. “It's only that we really should be on our way—”

Ferdinand walks past him toward his own palomino’s stall. “Fine. Then I won't bother you with the details of how to get her to stop chasing after deer when she spots them. She’s convinced they all want to be her friends.”

And at Hubert's horrified expression, Ferdinand swings himself into Marcus’s saddle.

Once they are situated, they made their way down toward the front gates. There is no suppressing the clop of hooves on stone, but as Ferdinand scans the ramparts, he sees no telltale dark shapes moving along them. “Hubert—ah, where are the guards—”

“I told you, I had everything handled.” Hubert steers Avané ahead of him.

Ferdinand blanches. “What exactly did you do?”

“A sleeping draught in the guards’ water supply.” Hubert shrugs one shoulder. “Yet another security flaw we should look into shoring up when we return.”

Ferdinand glances at Hubert’s saddlebags and decides it’s best not to wonder how much of his provisions are poisonous.

They reach the gates, and Hubert hops down to work the latching mechanism. But as he does so, a figure starts from the shadows, rushing toward them—

“Just a minute, you jackasses. What the hells do you think you’re doing?”

Ferdinand reels back in his saddle. “D-Dorothea?”

Dorothea Arneault emerges from the darkness, hands propped on her hips. “I thought I heard you stomping out of your room, Ferdinand. I know you’re upset, but—this is too much. You’ve gone too far.”

“Please, I promise we can explain—”

“And Edie—it doesn’t make any sense. Sure, I’m pissed at her right now, but she’d never punish either of you like this—”

But before she can finish, Hubert has coalesced from the darkness, and wraps his arm around her from behind. A flash of white as he presses his handkerchief to her mouth. She lets out a muffled shriek, thrashing, but starts to go limp—

“Hubert!” Ferdinand cries.

But then she is out. Gently, Hubert lowers her to the ground, then glowers up at Ferdinand. “You can explain everything? Honestly?”

“You knocked out Dorothea!”

Hubert climbs back into Avané’s saddle with a grunt. “We haven’t even left the monastery and already you're eager to give everything away!”

Ferdinand huffs, indignant. “But Dorothea—”

“Is exactly the sort of person we don’t want knowing about this.” Hubert steers through the gates. “Let her spread the word she tried to catch us fleeing. Not that it was all for show!”

“Well, you could have been nicer about it.”

“If you find a nicer way to knock someone unconscious,” Hubert says, “I’d love to hear it.”

And at that, he prods Avané into a gallop, and Ferdinand follows, leaving the erstwhile monastery—their home, their friends, their empire—behind.

They ride hard into the sunrise for several hours—ride like men expecting the full force of the Adrestian Army to bear down on them at any moment. But even Marcus needs to rest on occasion, and Avané’s pace is lagging; and as the world wakes up around them, they begin to see travelers and merchants on the path out of the mountains. The kind of attention they’re hoping to avoid.

Hubert signals for them to make their way into the rocky forest, and they weave around the trees until he deems them a safe enough distance from the road. Ferdinand tends to the horses while Hubert prepares rations for the both of them. “Thank you,” Ferdinand murmurs, rubbing Marcus’s snout. “I’ll give you a thorough brushing once we rest for the night, hmm?”

Marcus pushes his lips into Ferdinand’s cheek, smearing him with horse spit. Ferdinand simply laughs and shrugs it off with his shoulder as he heads to the makeshift camp Hubert’s set up for them.

“Have a seat.” Hubert gestures toward a folded wool blanket he’s draped over the dead leaves and underbrush.

“How terribly kind of you.” Ferdinand settles onto it and grabs an apple for himself.

“Yes, well. I suspected you’d be incensed at the thought of sitting down amongst the worms.”

“Must you be so dramatic?” Ferdinand bites into the apple, and only just realizes how completely famished he is. He pays no mind to the juice as it dribbles down his chin. After swallowing, he says, “I have camped on multiple occasions.”

Hubert swallows a wad of dried jerky. “Those fancy officers’ tents the army constructs for you when we’re in the field do not count.”

Ferdinand smiles, in spite of himself, and they settle into companionable silence as they finish their meal. They are both too tired, too raw to continue their usual banter, and yet the pensive look on Hubert’s face is almost as comforting. As if maybe, just maybe, the scowl really is all part of the masks he wears for the world. Without his formal uniform, he looks refreshingly . . . straightforward. Sometimes the prickliest fruits, after all, have the softest yields.

Then he notices Ferdinand staring, and gives him a sharp roll of his eyes.

“What is it, von Aegir?” Hubert asks. “I know you have something to say.”

“Mm? Oh. No. I was merely thinking . . .” He flushes; catches a strand of his wind-tossed hair. “That I should have braided my hair back. I forgot how snarled it gets after a hard ride.”

There is a rather pointed pause, and Hubert appears to be holding back an unseemly comment.

“What?” Ferdinand asks. Then, because it’s only fair—“I know you have something to say.”

After a long moment, Hubert merely smirks. “Nothing, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand sniffs, and continues attacking his tangles as he decidedly does not wonder at the significance behind that smirk.

Hubert pushes himself to his feet. “Stop. You’re going to rip your hair straight out. Don’t you have a comb?”

Then he bites at the middle finger of his glove to tug it off, and Ferdinand temporarily forgets anything except for that sudden flash of teeth and those bare fingers slipping free—

“Ferdinand.” Hubert tilts his head. “Comb.”

“Right! Right.” Ferdinand gestures toward the saddlebags. “Buried somewhere in there. I think. I—I am not actually sure.” He really shouldn’t be expected to answer questions after a spectacle like _that_.

With an irritated sigh, Hubert reaches into his own pack and pulls one out. “You’re going about it all wrong.”

“Oh, what do you know about dealing with long hair!”

“More than you think.”

And then Hubert comes behind him and kneels down at Ferdinand’s back with a crunch of leaves.

Ferdinand goes very still, mind continuing to spin on thoughts of teeth and gloves and fingers and the various potential applications of each, all delightful in their possibilities. He reacts only when Hubert smacks his hands aside to take over. “If I may,” Hubert says softly.

Ferdinand is certain he’s blushing down the back of his neck clear into his shirt. “Y-yes.”

Hubert tugs at the velvet ribbon to release his partial ponytail, then works his bare hands into Ferdinand’s mane, fingernails trailing up his scalp. The sensation is so startling, so intimate, it shocks him into silence. Well. Silent except for the blood humming in his ears and his heart so panicked against his ribs. He loses himself in the feeling of his hair being teased and separated; of the comb slipping into a knot for Hubert to pry it apart, all while keeping the lock steady at the roots so it doesn’t pull too much. Ferdinand clenches one hand around the blanket as the soothing movements work across his head, as Hubert’s breath is audible in the crisp morning air, as he works his fingers through his hair with such care.

“I . . . used to do this for her,” Hubert says, with the hushed sound of a confession, one Ferdinand doesn’t dare interrupt. “When she was younger and was so . . . ill.” The comb stutters, if only for a moment. “She’d sometimes be in the—the, ah, infirmary—for days, sometimes weeks, and when she returned, it was as if no one cared for her. Gave a damn about her.”

He exhales, his breath like fingers curling around Ferdinand’s bared neck.

“She deserved better,” Hubert says. “Especially in such a difficult time.”

Ferdinand’s hand uncurls. Yes—of course. He’d do this for Edelgard. It doesn’t—signify anything. And now they are thrown together, and Ferdinand is only hearing this side of Hubert because there’s no one else for him to share it with. He closes his eyes.

“I am sorry. That you have to—to leave her side.”

Another pause; then Hubert sets the comb down on the blanket and separates Ferdinand’s hair into three sections. “Don’t be.”

Ferdinand _hmm_s. “I saw your face last night. You need not pretend.”

“Mm. Well.” As Hubert begins to braid, his fingers dance along Ferdinand’s scalp, his neck—swift pecks of bare fingers, soft and warm. And it’s too easy to imagine they are lips instead. It’s too easy to wish it, when even this—this quiet calm, this careful attention Hubert is paying to him, no bickering, no masks—is already so much more than Ferdinand could ever ask for.

And there are no eyes on them. Which means it’s not quite pretending—is it? But it means nothing. It’s nothing but what it is.

“It is good for me to spend time away from her,” Hubert finally says. “I will always serve her, but there are . . . things we cannot be to each other, nor would we wish to if we could.”

Ferdinand says nothing to that. An answer to a question he’s long been afraid to ask. “Because of her, or you, or—”

“Both,” Hubert says. “And more besides. But my—my love for her is no lesser for it.”

Ferdinand’s shoulders fall. “Yes. I can see that.”

Hubert reaches the end of the braid, and wraps the velvet ribbon around the end. “Not everyone can appreciate it.” He tugs the bow tight. “But I owe my life to her. My purpose. And if that means . . .”

“I—I know,” Ferdinand blurts. “I know. Because you’ve told me so. So save your bloody breath.”

Hubert drops the braid. The weight of it is too much against Ferdinand’s skin. “I beg your pardon—”

“I know damned well there is no room in your heart for anyone else!”

The forest is too quiet save Hubert’s sharp inhale. But Ferdinand will not turn around; he will not see those glowering eyes and disgust for him. If Hubert wasn’t fully regretting this mission, he’s sure to now. _Goddess damn it._ Ferdinand can’t even hold himself together for a single day.

“We should get back on the road, should we not?” Ferdinand’s voice is squeaky, frantic, but he doesn’t care. He scrambles to his feet and yanks the blanket up with him. Stuffs it back in its roll without bothering to shake it clean. Stalks toward the horses and pats Marcus’s flank. “Hello, Marcus, are you feeling rested now?”

“Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand unfastens Marcus’s reins and hooks his bags back into place. Leads Marcus toward the clearing. “Come along, they’re ready for another round.”

“Ferdinand, is this about—”

“It isn’t about anything!” he shouts. Jams one boot into Marcus’s stirrup. Swings himself up and over. “Th-thank you kindly for the braid.”

_I have a duty. You are not it._

Hubert is standing, staring at the ground, still clutching his stupid comb. Ferdinand tries to look away, but there’s something a little too satisfying about that furrow to Hubert’s brow.

Let him think and wonder what he did; let him regret their mission. Nothing either of them can do about it now.

“Yes. You’re—you’re welcome.” Hubert grabs his pack and heads toward Avané. “Let’s be on our way.”

* * *

** _ETHEREAL MOON, 1180._ **

Monica had accepted a dance from some boy in Golden Deer within a minute of their arrival at the ball. Which is perfectly fine with Hubert; now he can watch the proceedings from the corner without having to prattle on about her dress (tasteless) or make grunts of agreement with her commentary (stultifying). He keeps a close eye on every boy who even begins to approach Lady Edelgard as he sips one—perhaps two—glasses of champagne, and thankfully, most turn away the moment they catch his gaze.

Unfortunately, he is not nearly so adept at keeping certain nosy traitors away.

“Hey there, Gloombert!” Claude von Riegan calls, bounding up to him and offering him a glass of punch. “You look like you could use some liquid cheer.”

“Not in the mood, von Riegan.” Hubert raises on his toes to see over his head; he could have sworn Dimitri was winding his way in Edelgard’s general direction.

“So formal again, huh? That’s too bad. And yet here you are, all alone.”

Hubert grunts. “I am not here for festivities. I am here to fulfill my duties.”

“Didn’t know ‘wet blanket’ was part of your job description.” Claude sips his own glass of punch. “Oh, hey, look at that, she can survive just fine without your help.”

“I beg your—” Hubert starts to charge forward, but Claude catches him by his sleeve and yanks him back. As he slumps back against the wall, he has to concede Claude has a point. Edelgard has finally made her way onto the dance floor, beaming and laughing, as she swirls around with Dorothea.

Claude takes another sip. “Told ya.”

“All right. I’ll permit Miss Arneault.” Hubert folds his arms. “But there are plenty other idiotic boys here tonight who are not deserving of my lady’s—”

“Why don’t you let her decide that for herself, and go find someone to dance with yourself?”

“You’re ridiculous. Who would I even—”

“You know _damn well_ who I mean.”

Claude grips him by the shoulder, squeezing hard, and guides his gaze toward the wall perpendicular to theirs. And there he is, hair glistening in the chandelier light as he laughs amongst his friends, the insufferable little sunflower himself. He catches Hubert staring, and offers him a bright smile, but when his friends turn to see who it is he’s looking at, they burst into laughter.

“He’s the _White Heron Cup _champion,” Hubert huffs. “He should have no trouble finding dance partners.”

Claude simply shrugs. “Least you could do is ask.”

It’s pointless. Despite what his lady said, they cannot afford a distraction. Now more than ever. Even if he’s spent every night since that idiotic White Heron Cup thinking of rosy lips pressing against air, elegant arms arcing around nothingness. Thinking of slipping into all those empty spaces, thin as a shadow, because daring to imagine himself taking up any more space—

“You’re killing me,” Claude says. “You are literally killing me.”

“_Then why don’t you go dance with him_,” Hubert hisses. And surely it’s just the alcohol, but his face feels _molten_ right now, his emotions like shards of glass—

“Hey! Ferdie!” Claude shouts, waving one arm.

Hubert finally takes the second glass of punch from Claude and swallows it all down, ignoring the caustic burn of whatever appalling liquor it’s been spiked with. “Von Riegan, I will throw a hornet’s nest into your room—”

“Yeah, yeah. Look! It’s the champion dancer!” Claude exclaims, as Ferdinand von Aegir himself strolls up to them with his flawlessly sculpted hair and immaculate white chiffon cravat, like the bloody arrogant ass he is. “How’re you doing, Ferdie?”

“Von Riegan. Von Vestra,” Ferdinand adds, with a brief nod toward Hubert, neither warm nor cool. “A splendid ball, is it not?”

“Not too bad,” Claude says. “Though I’m surprised your dance card isn’t packed, there, champ.”

Ferdinand’s cheeks go rosy, and Hubert feels an unwelcome burning in his gut. “Ah, well, perhaps everyone is simply too intimidated by my peerless skills!”

And he just has to make it a _challenge_, doesn’t he? He just has to be so terribly . . . Ferdinand von Aegir about everything.

Hubert shoves his emptied punch glass right at Claude, who takes it with an_ oof_. “I’m not intimidated.” Smiling thinly, he adds, “It would take rather more than you’re capable of, von Aegir, to intimidate me.”

His whole face is red now. “I have never even _seen_ you dance. I doubt a—a _spider_ like you has any knack for it.”

“Goddess, here we go,” Claude mutters.

Hubert ignores him as he steps closer to Ferdinand. Looming over him. Nearly chest to chest. He’s breathing too quickly; the alcohol might as well be gasoline in his veins, ready to spark. “Perhaps I should show you, then.”

Ferdinand sputters as he looks up at him. “Me? Dance with you? I would rather—I would—”

Before he can stop himself, Hubert extends one hand to him. “Unless you are afraid.”

“Certainly not of you.”

Hubert laughs. That quiver in Ferdinand’s lower lip, the stubborn set of his jaw. It’s exactly how he looks in Hubert’s dreams, just before he’s completely undone.

Flames—no, those thoughts need to remain inside his head, the only place they can safely belong—

“Fine. Show me, von Vestra.” He snatches Hubert’s gloved hand too hard. “But I guarantee you can be no match for me.”

And because it is only a dance—because the lights are too hot and the music too loud—Hubert does.

He maneuvers Ferdinand, backward, onto the dance floor and takes up the leading position. Ferdinand’s eyes never leave his, but they’re narrowed, defiant. Good. He likes that stubbornness about him.

“I am used to leading,” Ferdinand says in a huff, “but I suppose it’s only fair to put myself at a disadvantage.”

“Yes, champion. I’m certain you can manage.”

A new waltz begins, and Hubert leads them into their steps.

The problem is, Ferdinand _is_ good—exceptionally so. He knows just where to move to keep their legs from colliding, just how to adjust for their difference in height, all while letting Hubert take the lead. When Hubert nearly falters, a tiny smirk emerges on those pink lips, and Hubert narrows his eyes. But he can’t look away. To look away is to lose. And he has never wanted to win more than now, never wanted something so completely and utterly for _himself_, and it’s an even more disorienting feeling than the spiked punch, which is definitely hitting him harder now—

“Von Vestra?” Ferdinand asks.

Hubert catches his breath. How had he forgotten to breathe? “Mm?”

“You are very . . . ah . . . close.”

“Am I too distracting?” Their chests are nearly touching; their thighs brush together on the longer steps. “Shall I step back?”

Ferdinand swallows. Still staring. “N-no.”

The thudding in Hubert’s chest drowns out whatever retort he’d meant to say. Perhaps he is gripping Ferdinand’s hand too tight, or furrowing his brow too much, but it’s keeping Ferdinand’s gaze on him, so surely it can’t be all bad.

The waltz edges toward its climax, and they step faster still. Hubert missteps, once, twice, but a sharp jerk from Ferdinand rights them in no time.

And finally—the dip.

Ferdinand is delicate and weightless as he lets Hubert lower him. And there is no need for it, save the thoughts that have tormented him all month—

He grazes that long, swanlike neck with the tip of his nose.

So close, so close to pressing his lips there, finally answer this burning need to know how Ferdinand tastes—

And then he pulls them back upright.

Ferdinand is flush against him now as the other dancers shuffle around them. Staring. Lips parted. Were this only in his head, he would push them open with his tongue, grip that angled chin, taste every last smug inch of him and mark it as his.

_His._

Such a disorienting word. To want something for himself, to want some_one_—to admit such a weakness, to admit that perhaps he’s the one who can be undone . . .

No one and everyone is watching. He can’t think with this crowd. He drops Ferdinand’s hand, but keeps their arms linked as they move toward the doorway.

“D-do you concede, then?” Ferdinand asks. Still breathing heavy from the exertion of their dance.

Hubert tries to draw a deep breath, but the air won’t come. “I fear I must bow to your superior skills.” Hubert glances at him sideways, that boastful smirk already forming on Ferdinand’s lips—“But I confess it would have been more impressive in your dancer’s costume.”

There. That wipes the smugness right off of him. Oh, flames, even the tips of his _ears_ go red at that. Hubert is overcome with the urge to bite them and, fuck’s sake, why is he letting these thoughts surface—

But Ferdinand is smirking, smirking, and Hubert can scarcely breathe—“Then maybe I shall change, and show you how it is _really_ done.”

Then some idiot named Hubert says, “Maybe you should.”

Ferdinand laughs. Brushes the bangs from his face with a shaking hand. Straightens his uniform jacket. “Very well, von Vestra. Come with me.”

* * *

** _GREAT TREE MOON. NOW._ **

Ferdinand blames the wind for the salty trail at the corners of his eyes as they ride on, but every thud of his braid against his back calls out his lie. Goddess. They were only _children_ back then, adults in law only; he has no business holding such a grudge, nursing such a wound for so long. A single wound! One solitary, idiotic, slightly intoxicated evening! They’ve even become—so he dares to think—friends. But the cut is still as fresh and stinging as if it were yesterday. No amount of bickering or placid teatimes or work or battle or ill-fated picnics with obnoxious knights ever seems to suture it closed.

And now he must reopen it again and again, all in the name of the empire.

What a bloody mess.

The second leg of their journey is slower going; Hubert wants them to stay in the tree cover to avoid being spotted on the road. Marcus picks his way through the underbrush like a champion, but Avané falters a few times, and Ferdinand must chide Hubert to encourage her. At least there’s something amusing in watching him try to think of kind, encouraging things to say to a horse.

The phrase “I respect your ability to crush my chest in, and appreciate that you have not done so yet” reaches Ferdinand’s ears, and he smiles in spite of himself.

But twilight comes too soon, and Ferdinand doesn’t want to push the horses any harder. Hubert nods at his signal, and they slow to a trot, side by side, and Avané leans over to nuzzle at Marcus’s snout. Hubert slumps in the saddle, and Ferdinand permits himself a small smile. He clearly lacks the endurance for such a hard ride all day. Another point in Ferdinand’s favor.

“We’re on Gloucester borderlands, northeast of the monastery,” Hubert says. “There’s a tavern and inn not much further from here that Alliance spies frequent. It might be a good opportunity to make ourselves ‘known,’ as it were, and rest for the night.”

Ferdinand blinks. “What should we do, walk right up and announce ourselves? That seems ill-advised.”

“Saints, no. We shouldn’t appear to have any kind of plan in mind beyond safe haven for the night. I doubt word of our argument with Her Majesty has reached this far, anyway.”

“I see. So for now, we are two lovesick fools, fleeing from danger, weary from the road, uncertain as to our options. Maybe we’ll allow the Alliance to come up with the idea to recruit us on their own.”

Hubert turns toward him, eyebrows lifted approvingly. “Well done, von Aegir. Maybe you have an untapped gift for espionage after all.”

“Ferdie,” Ferdinand corrects. “You should call me Ferdie. But act embarrassed about it. Like it’s a secret.”

“Well, I’m not going to call you anything at the tavern. That’d rather defeat the point of being on the run.”

“Yes, but—once we’re taken in.”

“All right. Ferdie.” And though he’s said it before, there’s something in the way it immediately softens Hubert’s tone that makes Ferdinand’s stomach flip. “What will you call me?”

“Mm. I was rather liking ‘darling’ for you. I think I’ll keep it.”

Hubert looks away with a funny noise in his throat. “I, ah, like that as well.” He’s quiet for a moment—“To the tavern, then?”

They reach it just after the sun fades away, and turn their horses over to the stablehands with a quick press of extra coin for their silence. They don’t expect that silence to hold, but it’s beside the point. The town appears to be a small mining village; Hubert selects a quieter tavern than the boisterous saloon further down the road, and it’s quickly apparent why. It’s far emptier, and the dining hall is dark and drafty, full of many nooks where they can take a quiet meal away from curious eyes.

Not that their entrance goes unremarked.

Hubert presses a hand to the small of Ferdinand’s back as they make their way toward a shadowed booth. “Remember,” he says under his breath. “We’re on stage.”

The innkeep brings them bowls of hearty mutton stew and ale, and they eat in silence. Ferdinand tries to surreptitiously scan the tavern for signs of these alleged spies, but a sharp kick under the table stops him.

“Let me serve as lookout,” Hubert says, smiling with gritted teeth. “Ferdie.”

“Of course, my darling.”

Hubert makes a face and takes a long pull of ale.

An older woman passes a little too closely by their table, and Hubert shrinks back into the shadows of the booth. Ferdinand raises one eyebrow—questioning—as the woman slips out the tavern exit.

“Possibly,” Hubert says quietly. “But there are likely more.”

Ferdinand takes another swig of ale, a new devious plan coming to mind.

“At least we are free now,” he murmurs. “Free to share our lives. Isn’t that right, darling?” He slides his hand across the table and cups it over Hubert’s own.

Hubert’s hand twitches, but he doesn’t pull away. “How right you are.”

“No more obligations, no duties to concern ourselves with . . . It is exhilarating, is it not?”

Hubert’s smile becomes a pained rictus. “O-only you and I.”

“Well, I’m sure we can find ample ways to occupy ourselves.” Ferdinand inches his fingers higher, until they are at the hem of Hubert’s glove. “I should like to start a horse farm someday—”

“Horse farm?” Hubert echoes nervously.

“Oh, yes, but in the meantime—there is still so much of _you_ I wish to explore.”

Hubert emits some kind of gurgling noise, and looks ready to spit poison like he were a Morfis cobra.

“Especially now that we need not hide our love,” Ferdinand coos. “We can be as loud as we wish—”

“Some—uh, er—we are not quite safe yet, so—some, ah, discretion would be—”

“Why is that, darling?” He leans forward, and strokes his fingertip along Hubert’s bare forearm. “Surely her search party cannot recognize you from the sounds of your cries alone.”

“Maybe we should just rest tonight,” Hubert wheezes. “In fact, maybe we should do so now.”

“So eager,” Ferdinand teases.

Hubert drops some extra coin on the table and pulls his hand away to climb out of the booth. “Come, _Ferdie_,” he whispers, “it’s been a long day.”

Ferdinand can’t help but grin, victorious, at Hubert’s back as they climb the stairs to the rooms.

“That,” Hubert grits out as he unlocks their room, “was wholly unnecessary.”

“Ah, but maybe it was just the thing they needed to overhear.”

Ferdinand’s basking ends abruptly, though, as they enter their room.

Their modestly appointed room, smaller than even the dormitories at Garreg Mach, though like those rooms, it offers only a single bed.

“Uh. Hubert . . . ?”

“Oh, apologies, I thought you wanted to explore me.” He glowers at Ferdinand. “I’ll sleep on the floor if you’re going to be huffy about it.”

“Nonsense. You’re the one whose thighs must be quivering like gelatin after that ride—”

“What do _you_ know about my thighs—”

“Just take the damned bed!” Ferdinand whisper-hisses.

Hubert closes his eyes; takes a deep breath. “If we were truly going to err on the side of caution . . . then we must be prepared for the possibility of Alliance soldiers bursting in here in the middle of the night.”

Ferdinand’s brain temporarily pauses all other functions to parse out Hubert’s meaning. “. . . Oh.”

Hubert scrutinizes the bed as though it were a trap about to spring. “We needn’t, um. Undress. But if you are comfortable with it, we should both . . .”

Ferdinand would be more comfortable flinging himself into the hearth in the tavern’s dining hall, but he nods. “No. You are correct. We should.”

They both stare at the bed for a minute, neither moving.

“Well. It is wider than our old school beds, I suppose,” Ferdinand finally says.

“Not by much.” Hubert grimaces. “Though I suppose those could accommodate two. Uh. Grudgingly.”

Ferdinand’s voice shoots up several registers. “_How would you know_—”

“Quiet!” And at that, Hubert stomps to the edge of the bed and sits down to wrestles with the laces of his boots. “And you know perfectly well—”

“You don’t mean—” Ferdinand groans. “Goddess, that does _not_ count.”

“Clearly it counted enough to upset you earlier.” Hubert fumbles with his boots a moment longer before surrendering and flopping onto his back. “How on _earth_ do you stand to ride those beasts? I feel like I’ve been beaten to a pulp.”

“It takes training, is all. But if you’re going to whine about it . . .”

Ferdinand peels away his own boots and jacket, then kneels down at Hubert’s feet. Grasping him by the calf in one hand, he starts to pluck apart the lacings. The black canvas and leather boots must be what Hubert wears for subterfuge; they lack the polish and flashiness of his uniform footwear. Once it’s loosened, he shimmies it down off of his calf.

“You were probably rolling your ankles like mad in these, weren’t you? They’re much too flexible.”

Hubert grunts. “I need them flexible for clandestine work.”

“Well, not for horseback riding, you silly.” He starts on the second one. “You’re going to have terrible leg cramps tonight, I’ll wager.”

Hubert lets out a bone-deep sigh. “Is there nothing I can do for it?”

Ferdinand’s hands linger on his calf as he peels off the second boot. “Ah. Massaging them should help.” He contemplates pushing his thumbs into Hubert’s ropy muscle there, but that would _truly_ fit the definition of wholly unnecessary. And he is still miffed with him, after all. “So, ah. Enjoy that.”

“Hrngh.” Hubert drags one leg, then the other, up on to the bed with him, then squirms his way under the covers. Exhales loudly, wearily. “Ferdie . . .”

Ferdinand flinches and focuses on working the braid loose from his hair. Hubert _had_ done a good job with it, much to his dismay. His hair comes out in uniform waves.

“Judging by your, ah, reaction . . .” Hubert mumbles, “I can only assume you’ve never slept with anyone before?”

Ferdinand drops the vest he’d been removing with a yelp. “I _beg_ your pardon—”

“Erm. In the sense of, ah. Sharing a bed. Not in the—euphemistic sense—”

“Either way, I don’t see how it’s any of your business!”

“It isn’t.” Hubert groans; curls in on himself against the wall. “I was only making conversation. Didn’t know if it might make you feel more—ah, comfortable.”

“Well, there’s nothing to be done for that, now, is there?”

“No. I suppose not.”

Ferdinand has stripped off everything he cares to, leaving him in his breeches and dress shirt; after shutting off the kerosene lamp, there’s nothing to do now but climb in. He slides one foot in beneath the covers, then the next. If he holds himself very still, then there’s enough space for him to lay flat on his back without pressing against Hubert’s side.

Mostly. Enough that he can manage it.

“I haven’t, if it helps,” Hubert mutters. “Not for the night. I suppose this is new for us both.”

Ferdinand tries not to wonder on that very specific distinction. “My youngest sister, Beatriz, she—she used to have terrible nightmares. Anytime she woke up with them, she’d come running to my room.”

“You’re a good brother,” Hubert mumbles. “I’ll try not to need any soothing.”

“Much appreciated.” Ferdinand stares up at the dark ceiling of rough-hewn wood. “Now please stop talking before I’m forced to smother you with a pillow.”

“I’ll have you know,” Hubert mutters groggily, “I sleep with _several_ knives on my person.”

“Then keep them to yourself.”

There is blessed silence after that, but Ferdinand can feel the heat of Hubert’s skin, scant inches from his own. The bed seems alive with the rise and fall of their collective breaths. And it would be far more comfortable if he were to turn onto his side, either one, but he’s not about to concede defeat—

“Ferdie?” Hubert whispers, almost as if by accident.

Ferdinand doesn’t answer. He might as well be asleep, after all.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you earlier. In the woods.” A weary sigh. “It wasn’t my intent.”

Ferdinand closes his eyes. No, it might not have been his intent.

But it was still the truth.

* * *

** _ETHEREAL MOON. 1180._ **

“All right. You can turn around now.”

Hubert squeezes the stem of the champagne glass Ferdinand had poured them both inside his room. As if either of them needed more, but Ferdinand was offering, and Hubert needs something to smooth the tremble in his limbs—

He turns, carefully, to find Ferdinand striking his beginning dance pose. Wearing a gauzy, gold-tipped costume that leaves _very_ little to the imagination.

“Oh,” Hubert stammers.

He’s edged in silvery moonlight and the amber from the single kerosene lamp he’s lit, burgundy gauze rippling over freckled skin. At his throat, a golden collar gleams. He holds himself so gracefully—somehow even more divine than the night of the competition, even more than their dance tonight. Hubert feels a dull ache in his chest at the sight of him. It feels like the end of a struggle, like the long embrace of deep sleep.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” Ferdinand says.

And he supposes there is a chair against the wall, but it’s covered in Ferdinand’s dirty laundry, and anyway, the bed is closer, so he sits down on the edge.

There is no music; there is only the soft taps of Ferdinand’s bare feet on carpeted flooring, and the swish of fabric and twinkle of bangled trim as he moves from flow to flow. There is no music, and yet Hubert can almost hear it in Ferdinand’s movements, a lilting melody that drifts around them both. He can’t remember how he got here or why, or why he fought it for so long; he only knows that he is caught, now, in the eddies of _this_. He hopes it never lets him go.

Ferdinand comes to a stop before him. Props one hand on Hubert’s knee. Sweeps a long arm forward and trails a veil of gauze down Hubert’s face and chest.

And then he pauses. Long-necked and bright and blushing, the red creeping down past his collar into the gauzy depths of his gown’s bodice. A freckled thigh is bared, pushed between Hubert’s own, and it’s taking an incredible amount of willpower for him not to trap it there.

Ferdinand steadies his breaths; locks gazes with Hubert. “Well?” he asks, a quaver in his tone. “Are you satisfied?”

What a thing to ask. Hubert wets his lips, unable to look away. “Mm. Perhaps not yet.”

Ferdinand smiles, and somehow manages to turn even more scarlet, all the way down past his collarbones, freckles vanishing into the flush. Hubert would very much like to taste that blush, he thinks suddenly. He would very much like to taste all of him.

Slowly, Ferdinand brings one hand up to cup Hubert’s cheek. He’s looming over him now, lithe form trembling, but he stands strong. “I don’t know why you hide your face,” Ferdinand blurts. “You’re very lovely.”

Hubert’s mouth pops open; he’s too stunned to speak.

“I know we disagree on a great deal,” Ferdinand says, “but . . . I should very much like to kiss you. If you would be agreeable—Goddess.” He winces. “I am very sorry, I’ve had rather a lot of champagne—”

“Shut up, von Aegir,” Hubert growls, and tugs Ferdinand down on top of him.

At first he’s kissing somewhere on Ferdinand’s cheek before their lips find their way together, each sticky and sweet with drink. Ferdinand nudges his mouth open, sweeps in with an eager tongue, and Hubert is already groaning as he tumbles onto his back.

Ferdinand’s knee ends up somewhere too close to Hubert’s groan as he crawls over him, gauze spilling down around them as Hubert’s hands work their way along Ferdinand’s sides. “Careful,” he mutters, but it’s stifled somewhat by the glorious, sweet mouth currently ravishing his own, and Ferdinand can only laugh, that joyous noise buzzing through both of their bodies.

Ferdinand pushes back Hubert’s bangs; gazes down at him with the most absurd grin before drowning him in swift little kisses along his forehead and cheek, as light and quick as his dance steps. Hubert squeezes Ferdinand’s hips, back arching, and then they’re kissing again, hasty and sloppy and too deep and too hungry, but he can’t care, he doesn’t care at all, because whatever they both lack in skill relative to Hubert’s fever dreams, they more than make up for in realness, in the weight of Ferdinand atop him, in the bright scent of his skin and the carefully coiffed hair that Hubert is eagerly wrecking with his fingers.

“Goddess,” Ferdinand sighs, and suddenly there’s a tongue swirling at the hollow of Hubert’s throat, probing beneath his uniform collar, “I thought you hated me, I was afraid—”

“I can still desire you.” He bites, hard, at Ferdinand’s lower lip; savors the whine it pulls from him before releasing it. “They aren’t—mutually exclusive—”

Ferdinand’s lips latch onto his throat while his fingers fumble at the buttons of Hubert’s uniform. He shivers, startled, but as Ferdinand starts to pull his hands away, Hubert grabs them. “It’s all right.”

“I—I want you,” Ferdinand gushes, and, oh, does that tighten something deep inside Hubert. “I want to—to kiss you like the way it feels when you stare at me, it’s so much, and I wish for you to feel it too—”

“_Fuck_,” Hubert says, as pretty much every other thought has vacated his brain.

Ferdinand laughs and pushes the unbuttoned collar of Hubert’s jacket open. His mouth rounds around Hubert’s skin, and suddenly it’s like a brand searing him, marking him. He moans, his jaw clenched, pawing at the gauze of Ferdinand’s costume while he sucks his skin until Hubert’s sure he’s going to rip it off of him—

And then there’s a flurry of laughter from the corridor, a group of girls traipsing back to their rooms. Hubert freezes as one laugh in particular hooks its tendrils in his heart.

“Sounds like Ferdie’s having a good time,” Edelgard says, perhaps thinking she’s being quiet, but she, too, might have overindulged, because he wasn’t there, and anything could have happened, anything—

And as her friends erupt into giggles again, Hubert suddenly feels as though he’s plunged into a chilly stream—

“Hubert?” Ferdinand whispers, sitting back on Hubert’s thighs. “I’m sorry, should I stop—”

_No. Yes._ “Get off me,” he snarls, pure hatred in his tone.

Ferdinand scrambles off of him in a clatter of bangles. “I’m sorry—I am so sorry—”

“_Shut up!_” Hubert hisses. “You insufferable dolt—”

Ferdinand whimpers and backs against the wall.

“Damn it. I’m—I’m sorry. I cannot—” Hubert tastes bile in the back of his mouth. “I have allowed my control to slip, and I cannot afford it—”

“Control?” Ferdinand blinks. “But you said you—desired me.”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“How can it not—”

“I have a duty to serve,” Hubert snaps. “And you are not it.”

The pitiful noise Ferdinand makes is too much; it’s pathetic. It’s the sound of prey, of something weak, unlikely to survive the path that lies ahead. Because Ferdinand is a—a liability. Yes. He’s a soft heart and tender wishes and obnoxious enthusiasm and none of it is anything that will serve them well in the coming months.

Hubert takes one last look at him. His soft skin, his wide and wounded eyes. Strong, lithe limbs he’s coveted even as they’ve berated one another, nearly come to blows from time to time.

But there are more important things right now than a pretty, eager, entrancing man who vexes him and sets his blood alight. There is a world in need of reshaping. There is his lady’s path.

There is the bloody groundwork he must lay. And he cannot do it with his thoughts occupied by the relentless force that is Ferdinand von Aegir. And he certainly cannot tell him why—cannot embrace him with his bloodied hands.

“We can’t always have what we desire, Ferdinand.”

Hubert stands up, thankful, at least, for the give in his uniform slacks. Ferdinand has flattened against the wall, and as Hubert steadies himself, Ferdinand turns his head to the side, the faintest glint of moonlight catching the dampness on his cheeks.

Hubert closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at—at _any_ of that. “Even if we can fool ourselves for a time.”

“I’m not—fooling myself,” Ferdinand stammers. “I want you. Truly.”

Hubert reaches for the door handle with bile now eating a hole through his chest. “There are things I want more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** a clash at dawn.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DENIAL & DECEPTION FANART!!!!!!!
> 
> **["No room in your heart for anyone else"](https://twitter.com/qschadenfreude/status/1183779420471021568) by [@QSchadenfreude](http://twitter.com/QSchadenfreude)**
> 
> **[Byleth's genius solution](https://twitter.com/ClyncyeRudje/status/1182986160487968770) by [@ClyncyeRudje](https://twitter.com/ClyncyeRudje)**
> 
> Apologies this chapter took so long. It would help if these chapters wouldn't be so obscenely long! But real-life obligations should be much better next week so I'm looking forward to writing all the Ferdibert I can get my greedy hands on~

Ferdinand waits for him at the seaside vista, the setting sun washing him in amber and saintly gold where it kisses bronzed skin, a bared thigh, a bangled arm. He is graceful and patient, that man who’s so often in motion stilled, for once, in the crisp and salty air, the endless turquoise sea behind him and the tiled city curved around them and the pink bougainvilleas spilling over stucco walls to frame him. He is muscle carved from battle and discipline honed in the war room; he is a shrewd gaze and a quick wit and a heart too big to be chained to someone as cold and hardened as him. He is freckles and bright eyes and hair, so much hair, those copper ringlets dancing in the breeze.

Ferdinand waits, one arm raised, burgundy veil trailing down the long line of his pose. He waits, and he smiles, a perfect performer’s face in want of an audience. He will bear that smile through any pain.

As Hubert approaches, the smile turns his way.

Hubert joins him at the railing, and with a roll of hips, a shush of sandaled foot against stone, Ferdinand’s arms come around his shoulders and his thigh slides between Hubert’s own. Hubert’s heart stutters, and he tries to pull away, but he’s trapped. His muscles refuse to obey him. One look in Ferdinand’s eyes and he’s entranced, he can’t break this spell.

“Are you satisfied yet?” Ferdinand asks, smile fading, eyes pleading. “Can I ever be—enough?”

Shame threatens to drown Hubert, crush him in its undertow. _You have always been so much more than I can bear. _He tries to speak those words out loud, but his mouth feels sutured shut. He can’t get them across. Struggling, twitching, but they stay locked in his own mind. When he doesn’t answer, Ferdinand drops his gaze with a hungry sigh.

“What will it take, Hubert?” He nudges at Hubert’s chest; backs him against the railing, the sea now at Hubert’s back, in a cascade of bangles and gauzy fabric shushing together. “When will you want me enough to lift your gaze from your path of blood?”

_It has always been lifted to you. That is the curse of you, _he wants to scream_. My—flaw. _But his mouth is sealed, his confession trapped. He can never let Ferdinand hear.

“I suppose it will be never.” Deft fingers work at the fastenings of Hubert’s plain white tunic—and, oh, he did not realize he was dressed so simply, so _exposed_. “I’m not even enough to warrant an apology from you, am I?”

Hubert tries to grab Ferdinand’s wrists to stop him, but his hands, too, are anchored to the spot. Clutching at the railing at his back. His breaths are shallow, strained; his skin is burning everywhere Ferdinand’s hands move. He tugs Hubert’s shirt open and shoves it down over his shoulders, further pinning his arms in place.

“But they’re watching us, aren’t they?” With a weary sigh, Ferdinand drops to his knees, and all Hubert can manage is a strangled cry as soft lips kiss beneath his navel. “So we’d best put on a show.”

Hubert tries to beg him to stop, tries to say, more than anything—_I can’t pretend anymore—_

Ferdinand glances up at him through the fringe of his damp lashes before closing his eyes, rounding his mouth—“At least act like you like me, for a time.”

* * *

Hubert awakens with a sharp inhale of breath, the dream a thick fog around him—Ferdinand’s mouth, his tears, his pain all heavy in his thoughts. But it dries up immediately as he becomes painfully aware of his surroundings. The inn inside Alliance territory. The narrow bed they share. And Ferdinand himself.

Ferdinand appears to have grown several limbs over the course of the night, and they are all of them wrapped around Hubert in a death grip. There is nearly six feet of impossibly, searingly hot chevalier flesh trapping him in place, and he’s afraid to so much as breathe too deeply lest he chase this new dream away. _Is_ he still dreaming? It just might be the cruelest one yet.

The cobalt light tricking in from the window above them hints at the coming dawn. Hubert wants nothing more than to linger here—right here, a moment where he never chose the path of blood over these taut limbs, that gentle sighing breath caressing the back of his neck, the soft murmurs of unknowable dreams as Ferdinand pulls him closer . . .

But it’s nothing he has earned. This, too, can only be a means to an end.

“Ferdie?” he whispers. Probably too quietly.

All Ferdinand does in response is pull tighter around him, and nuzzle his nose and lips against the back of Hubert's neck, and Hubert swallows back a gasp. Then, as if it weren’t cruel enough, he maneuvers one thigh slightly higher against Hubert's own, brushing dangerously close to the unfortunate evidence of the true direction of Hubert's thoughts.

“Ferdinand,” he says, more urgently now. There’s a few strands of copper hair stuck to Hubert’s mouth and he tries to blow them off, but they refuse to budge.

“Mmhmm,” Ferdinand mumbles, and stretches his fingers wide against Hubert's chest.

Stops.

Yelps and all but leaps from the bed.

Hubert squeezes his eyes shut and adjusts himself as surreptitiously as he dares while Ferdinand stammers out a dozen apologies. “I, ah, tried to wake you . . .”

“Goddess. I am so sorry.” Ferdinand paces around the room, rubbing his eyes. Bright hair sticks every which way, glowing even in the wan light of dawn. “I, ah, usually sleep with a pillow, you see, and . . .”

At least he didn’t think Hubert was someone else. Did he? “It's all right. You needn’t explain yourself . . .” Hubert at last feels it safe enough to sit upright on the bed, but immediately regrets it, as harsh waves of pain through his battered muscles. He clearly needs to add ‘a full day on horseback’ to his torturer’s toolkit. “I only just woke up myself,” he adds, supposing it isn't too much a stretch of the truth.

“Yes. Well. Uh, in any case . . .” Ferdinand stops before the vanity in the room, and pours water from the white porcelain ewer into the basin. “What is our plan for today?”

“That rather depends on the Alliance,” Hubert says. He’s feeling more in control now—this is safe ground. “If we have not captured their attention here, then the most plausible scenario is for us to head south. However, that will take us further from our true destination of Derdriu. So I suggest we continue northeast, perhaps as if we plan to book passage out of Fódlan from there.”

Ferdinand finishes washing his face at the basin and pats his dewy skin dry with a towel. “Then let us hope the alliance spies are worth their while.”

“Indeed.” Hubert catches himself staring overmuch and forces himself to glance away. “Once we encounter the Alliance, though, it may be best to ensure we have a consistent story to tell them.”

“What do you mean?” Ferdinand begins to unbutton the cuffs on the shirt he slept in, as casually as if he were preparing tea. Hubert's mind stutters at the flash of wrist and muscular forearm before he can bring himself to answer.

“Small details that will help sell our lie.” Such as how far the freckles extend down Ferdinand’s chest, a question he had long wondered and yet only now may learn a definitive answer. He blinks, shaking his head. “Um. For instance, how long ago did our secret relationship begin?”

“Oh.” Ferdinand is quiet for a moment, focused solely on unbuttoning the front of his shirt collar. “I suppose it should be long enough that it would be worth us fleeing for.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is simply an ill-advised fling, and we are merely caught up in the moment, acting against our own self-interest—”

Ferdinand stops, shirt fully unbuttoned now, and slumps against the vanity. Hubert winces at the sudden dark expression on his face. “No,” Ferdinand says slowly, “I doubt anyone would believe you capable of something so . . . emotional.”

And there's that wounded tone again, raw like a rope burn. Same as yesterday, and his outburst in the forest. Hubert links his fingers together in his lap, hopeless as to what else he can possibly do or say. He knows what lies between them, but he has done his best to bury it beneath the bloody fields of battle ever since.

There is no point in wanting what he can never have. As if he needed a reminder—Ferdinand’s reaction, even now, is ample evidence of that. Ferdinand has every right to resent him for allowing his control to slip. It was an inexcusable sin. But better that he hates him than believe Hubert to be someone else—someone who can afford a rich soul like Ferdinand’s.

Someone who might ever deserve him, and adore him fully, the way he needs.

“Well,” Hubert says. “Then what would you advise?”

Ferdinand takes a deep breath and pushes away from the vanity. The white shirt falls from his shoulders, exposing the taut cords of his back. This time, when Hubert looks away, it is with an altogether different burning shame in his gut.

“Let us say four months, then,” Ferdinand says. “We can claim it started on the new year.”

Hubert nods, still feeling wound too tight. “Four months, then. And our first kiss?”

Ferdinand wets the washcloth and begins to scrub himself clean—neck, underarms, chest. “Perhaps it's your turn to decide.”

“Very well. Let's keep it simple. At the new year's festivities, then, to close out the Ethereal Moon—”

“Uh. Or we could use something else.”

Oh. _Oh._ Just when Hubert thought he couldn’t make a bigger ass of himself—

“Let's say you took me to supper on the town, a few days into the new year.” Ferdinand twists the wet cloth in his hands. “We enjoyed a bottle of zinfandel from Varley estates, and roasted mutton. We watched the sunset from a balcony, and our hands met on the railing, and then you turned to me, overcome with emotion—”

“How very romantic,” Hubert says. Have you been reading Bernadetta’s novel collection—”

“Maybe I deserve a little romance.”

With a sniff, Ferdinand pulls a fresh shirt from his pack and tugs it over those broad shoulders, muscles rippling. Hubert suppresses a cough, wondering how that shirt can even _fit_—

“Now, then.” Ferdinand looks at him. Do you care to wash up, too? Or shall we be on our way?”

Hubert's mouth is much too dry to answer that, which is just as well, as there is a sudden anxious rapping on the door.

They look at each other abruptly, and Hubert brings one finger to his lips.

“Gentlemen? I, uh, beg your pardon.” It’s the innkeeper’s voice, but there’s too much stress in it, far too much fear. “I, ah, had some—questions—regarding your stay—”

“Grab your things,” Hubert whispers, as he slips silently off the bed, ignoring the ardent protests of his battered thighs. “Come here.”

Ferdinand slings his pack over one shoulder, and his shirt is still upsettingly unbuttoned as he approaches Hubert silently. Well. Nothing to be done about that.

Another knock at the door, more frantic this time. “Sirs? Please open up, I merely have a few questions—”

Hubert jams his feet into his boots and grabs his bag, then wraps his free arm around Ferdinand’s waist. Ferdinand’s mouth rounds in surprise, and his hands raise between them—come to rest on Hubert’s chest. Somehow, that single act feels even more intimate and unsettling than waking up to find Ferdinand clutching at him, and something fractures inside Hubert, a fault line that’s never healed. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look into that unarmored, trusting face.

And then traces the Warp sigil on his thigh.

Arcane light envelops them, wrapping around them like a downpour, and they’re ripped from the room. Ferdinand whimpers, hands fisting in Hubert’s loose shirt. Without thinking, Hubert tightens his hold on his waist, and his lips graze Ferdinand’s forehead—so quick it could just be an accident, and anyway, he only brushed against thick locks—

And then the stables coalesce around them, and he reluctantly lets go while Ferdinand staggers away, clutching his stomach.

“Apologies for not warning you in advance.” Hubert rushes past the stalls, and his whole body feels molten. What was he thinking? Flames. At least Ferdinand was too distracted with the warp sickness to comment on it. There—he finds Avané’s stall and wrenches the door open. She lows her head toward him, and gives him what he hopes is an affectionate nudge on the cheek. Not reassuring, but better than outright biting him, he supposes.

“Sorry, miss. Ah. Ma’am. Afraid we’re short on time.” He tosses the saddle onto her back, but he’s moving much too slow, he’s not used to fussing with all the bridles and reins and cushions—“I am trying, please do not kick me—”

“What in the _hells_ are you doing,” Ferdinand hisses from behind him. “I _know_ you can saddle a horse because I’ve been forced to suffer through it countless times when the professor put us on stable duty together—”

“I’m trying!” Hubert manages to get the thick saddle belt around her belly and starts tugging it into the buckle, but Avané shifts, anxious, and he jumps back.

“Oh, for goddess’s sake. Move.” Ferdinand shoves past him and slides the buckle into place in one effortless swipe. He then settles the bit into Avané’s mouth, and fastens the bridle and whatever in the bloody hells the intricate mess of face-ropes are called around her head and neck, and then Hubert is thinking less about what the various overly complicated parts are supposed to be called and rather more about Ferdinand’s long bare fingers tightening straps of leather with expert skill—

“What was that?” Ferdinand asks.

“Hrrrgh? Nothing.”

“Not nothing. You made a sound.” Ferdinand pats Avané’s flank, and turns to look at him.

“Did not. Or, uh—I didn’t mean to—”

He’s thankfully saved from shoving his unlaced boot any further into his mouth by the sound of movement at the far end of the stables.

Hubert reaches for his tome. “Ferdinand, stay back.”

“I can defend myself!” Ferdinand huffs, and unsheathes his rapier.

“Just remember. We want to wound, not kill.” Hubert lowers his voice. “But not let it look as if that was our intent.”

“All right, that is simply too many layers of subterfuge—”

“Adrestian scum!” a voice bellows. “We have the stables surrounded. Come out now and surrender peacefully, or we will not hesitate to use force!”

“Is your mount ready?” Hubert asks over his shoulder.

“Yes. But I’ll warn you, Avané isn’t trained for battle—”

“Get your horse and await my command.”

Ferdinand rolls his eyes, but moves out of the stall, sword arm still raised. “I can defend myself.”

“We’re running out of patience, imperial pigs!” the voice taunts. “I’ll give you to the count of ten . . .”

“Go,” Hubert says, “I’ll follow.”

“One . . . two . . .”

“Wait.” Ferdinand jerks his head upward. Sure enough, there’s the soft patter of someone on the stable roof.

“Three. . . four . . . five . . .”

“Get on your horse. I’ll handle this,” Hubert hisses.

“You get on _your_ horse!”

“Six . . . Seven . . .”

And then a panel in the roof is wrenched open, and a blast of icy shards fly down at them from a Fimbulvetr spell.

“Damn it!” Ferdinand shrieks, rolling out of the way of the frost, though it appears to nick his thigh.

“Horse!” Hubert shouts. “Now!”

And with a gust of Miasma, the soldier on the roof topples to the stable floor, choking and wheezing for air.

Hubert swings into Avané’s saddle, but she rocks unsteadily beneath him, prancing forward and back. “Come, now,” Hubert mutters, giving her an awkward pat along her neck. “The sooner you carry us out of this, the sooner you needn’t worry.”

“Believe it or not, they don’t really understand abstract concepts.” Ferdinand trots past him, sword still in hand. “If you want to make a break for it—”

“Let’s—”

Ferdinand clicks out of the side of his mouth, and Avané charges forward, all trace of her previous nerves evaporating. Hubert scrambles to grab hold of the reins, then steadies his tome on his thigh, preparing another sigil. “Ready—”

“Charge!”

Ferdinand’s horse rears up and batters through the thin boards of the side door, and gallops out into the foggy morning. Digging his heels in, Hubert and Avané follow suit.

“Stand down!” someone calls from the mist. “We have archers trained on you!”

Hubert highly doubts the soldiers can see them any better than they can see the soldiers, but he readies his fingers over a sigil for Dark Spikes. Ferdinand catches his eye from a few feet ahead and jerks his head toward the east. Hubert nods, tugs the reins—

An arrow whizzes through the air from the west and thuds into Ferdinand’s saddlebags. To his credit, Ferdinand’s steed doesn’t so much as flinch, but Avané whinnies and stumbles back.

And it’s that damned whinny that rings out around them, echoing off the fog, undoubtedly giving their position away.

With a roar, a soldier rushes from out of nowhere, her blade swinging right for Ferdinand. Hubert cries out, but Ferdinand holds his own—catches her sword with his own blade, and rips it from her hands with an expert twist before kicking her away. Hubert blinks as he watches the fluid exchange, spell half-forgotten at his fingertips. Of course he’s watched Ferdinand in battle before, but—never from such a close vantage point, he supposes. His awareness of Ferdinand in battle began and ended with checking his periphery for any immediate threats to the man, and ensuring he was still healthy, upright, whole.

So witnessing it like this is not at all unlike the sensation of witnessing Ferdinand carry out his duties to the dance. A thickness in his mouth, a coolness in his veins. It is . . . artistry.

And also terribly distracting.

Hubert forces himself to look away at the shout of the next soldier encroaching. He unleashes the Dark Spikes at last, and she falters, but it isn’t enough to deter her. She’s rushing at Ferdinand with a wicked glaive—All while Ferdinand fends off another swordsman at his other side—

Hubert jams his heels into Avané’s sides and she lurches forward with a neigh. He scrambles for the next page in his tome—can he muster up a Death spell weak enough only to maim?—but he barely has time to think, he just has to stop the attack—

Avané crashes sideways into the lancer and the woman cries out. Jabs upward with the glaive. Hubert brings his foot out to block, but damned Ferdinand was right, these boots weren’t meant for riding or fighting, and she shoves past him easily. The blade skims across his ribs before his spell can topple her—

An unholy swear pours out of him as he slumps forward, tendrils of cold and an acidic burn radiating from the fresh wound. Splotches of black and green paint his vision and strange, twisting images pour out of the fog.

Hallucinations—poison. He works his mouth trying to shout to Ferdinand, to warn him, but all the sounds slur together.

He hears his name, but it’s from all around him. He’s never cared for his name, but it _does_ sound lovely in that voice—

“Hubert, goddess dammit!”

A sharp clicking noise, and then he’s charging forward, wind dragging its nails against his wound, every jostling movement stretching it wider and wider, and all he can see is a blur of beautiful, flowing orange just ahead of him charging into the fog before the fog consumes him, too.

* * *

Hubert tried writing him a letter, once. Twice. A dozen different times, a thousand different ways. But the only safe words put to paper are those swiftly fed to fire, and his every effort ended up meeting the same fate.

It was never the right time to apologize, not when he couldn’t explain why his lady’s path demanded his full attention, then not when they were deep in the throes of battle, the church and deposed nobles clawing at the gates. It was never the right time to pause and beg him—_Don’t you see, now? Can’t you understand?_ Because there was no understanding it, there was no apology, not without remorse—a remorse he could never afford. And so the apologies smoldered in his hearth, one after another, as their army of flames marched relentlessly on.

First came Edelgard’s coup. Like all the others, Ferdinand was shocked by it, but in his furrowed brow, too, was that spectre of betrayal. Hubert wanted to ask him, the compulsion vile and choking, if he understood, now, the choice Hubert had to make. But all he found in Ferdinand's words and deeds was his hurt at being cut out of their plans. Hubert could just imagine it—the pompous rant he was always moments from delivering to anyone who would listen.

_How can I be a true prime minister to you if I do not even know your goals? How can I possibly negotiate on your behalf if my every assumption is flawed?_

Then their war began in earnest. She gave them all the choice to leave. Hubert watched him even closer in those days, waiting for the sign he desperately needed—that Ferdinand was weak, that he would falter, that he lacked the courage to see this war through. Hubert needed to be proved right. He needed Ferdinand exposed for the vulnerable point that he was.

For at least, if Ferdinand was truly so weak, then Hubert could be reassured.

But the cruelty of the war knew no bounds, and soon Ferdinand was as committed as all of them—possibly more, in his zealous, determined way. But Hubert could not be proven wrong. He still knew he had done exactly as he should have, even if Ferdinand—as ever—refused to play the part in which Hubert had cast him.

At last Hubert found solace by turning away from him, focusing only on his other desires—consumed in them the same way the fire consumed every letter he never sent. He wanted to bring his lady's new order to life. He needed to see the tyranny of the church and crests and noble houses to fall. He craved, too, the day their cruel allies were no longer needed, and he could repay their cruelty tenfold.

What use, then, was a schoolboy’s infatuation against a world forged in flames? What good could such a distraction serve him if it only revealed the flaw in his armor?

How could he possibly love Ferdinand if the mere act of loving him made him a target for their foes?

When the shame of what he’d done became too great, his humiliation at having allowed his control to slip, his lady noticed it. She all but dragged the confession out of him, no doubt sniffing out his traitorous heart. Prostrate before her, face turned to the floor so she couldn’t see the deep flush to his cheeks as he admitted to giving in to baser instincts, if only for a night—and not even that. But she only sighed at him and told him it was his choice to play a fool; that he’d better not use her as an excuse to run from his own feelings again.

But she had never fully grasped all of the ways in which affection could be abused, by friend and foe alike. She told him to chase his happiness, but he could only see the disaster at the end of every hunt. His distraction would damn himself. Ferdinand. Edelgard and their whole cause.

And so he never finished those letters. He never acknowledged that night. He allowed a gentle friendship to bloom, instead, and told himself it was more than enough. That it was not so great a weakness—just to be near him, to feel the warmth of that sun, even if baring himself to it was sure to leave him burned.

And if he caught himself dreaming of more, caught himself thinking of his fingers in long curls, of strong arms holding him upright when he was weak, when he was blood-soaked, so exhausted from his duties he could barely stand upright—

If he found himself catching those gentle strains of laughter from across the monastery grounds, if he felt drawn to them despite what other obligations he had—

If he watched, with bile in his mouth and poison in his thoughts as Ferdinand smiled and sighed and vanished off to picnics with handsome knights—

Then it was a tolerable price to pay to spare them both from fatal wounds.

* * *

Hubert awakens to an agonizing pain in his left side and a cool hand on his forehead. He remembers soldiers wearing Alliance armor, the clash of steel, Ferdinand dispatching one after the other as though he were a graceful, flowing stream—

“Blrgh,” he says, rather than the question he means to ask. “Hrrh. Where—”

“Shush. You’re feverish, you idiotic . . . toad.”

The voice comes from somewhere above him, but his eyes are too heavy to open just yet. “Toad?” he mumbles, and hopes he sounds sufficiently incensed.

“Leaping in front of a lancer like that? Yes. You’re lucky you weren’t hurt worse than you were.”

He manages to pry his eyes open at that, and finds a red-faced vision looming over him, orange hair spilling around them both like a veil. A strand tickles at his lips and he wonders, idly, how it might taste.

“Mmmph,” he mutters instead, and closes his eyes before he has the urge say anything even more foolish.

“Oh, no, you don’t. I need you awake for a moment.” The hand at his forehead shifts to his cheek, now, and pats it none too gently. That’s when he realizes it’s a _bare_ hand, no cotton or silk to soften it, and he clenches his jaw. “I need your help.”

Hubert nods, but keeps his eyes shut. He feels as though he’s rocking back and forth, adrift at sea, but at least with his eyes closed he can’t think too much about the man curled around him.

Oh. Curled _around_ him. That would be Ferdinand’s lap his head is currently cradled in. A good thing he can’t speak, indeed. Because his thoughts are a vicious slurry of unchecked wants and impulses, and right now they are urging him to crawl into that lap—

“_Hubert,_” Ferdinand chides, and Hubert whimpers in response. “I think the blade that nicked you was poisoned, but I—I don’t know what to give you.”

Well, that would explain the clamminess on his skin and the utterly imbecilic thoughts about hair and hands and laps and freckled skin oozing their dark way through his blood. “Oh.”

There is a rustling as Ferdinand digs through his satchel with his free hand. “It was a shallow cut—I should be able to stitch it up—but I’m not sure if you need a topical ointment, or something oral, or . . .” Ferdinand sighs. “I actually haven’t the slightest idea.”

Hubert tries very hard to concentrate on the searing knot of pain along his left side instead of that cool hand at his cheek and the firm thighs supporting his neck. “Wound,” he sputters. “Describe.”

And then Ferdinand’s other hand tickles across his chest, at which point he realizes he is _shirtless_ and as soon as he imagines Ferdinand stripping him down, an act he is most upset to have missed, he concludes that it would really be better for both of them if he just succumbed to the blood loss right now.

“There’s a greenish tint under your skin out to about . . . here.” Ferdinand traces an outline. “It makes it look like an old bruise.”

Well, at least that’d explain the lowered inhibitions and inability to talk. “Vineworm,” he mumbles. “Topical toxin, but—bloodstream. Loopy.”

And he wants to pocket that wry smile on Ferdinand’s face and save it for another day; take it out and unfold it and breathe in its scent. “Yes, I can see that much. Now, how do I treat it?” The hand at Hubert’s chest regrettably vanishes. “And if you say I have to suck it out, I _will_ slap you.”

“Frrllh,” Hubert says, by way of clever retort. “Not _that_ loopy.” Not that it’s a terrible thought to distract himself with. Pretty pink lips on his bare chest, soft amber eyes gazing up at him as he sucks—

“Then you clearly didn’t hear yourself earlier.”

“Uh.” Hubert contemplates setting himself on fire rather than even consider what else he might have said. “Dandelion. Powder,” he mutters instead. “The roots.”

“I’m assuming you have some in here?” The hand at his cheek leaves, too, which seems unnecessarily cruel in his agonized state.

“Vial. Large. Labeled.”

He winces at the racket as Ferdinand digs recklessly through his bag of countless lethal substances. “Ah. Here we are.”

“Make paste. With water.” Hubert tries to raise his hands to demonstrate but they flop like fish at his sides. “Cover wound. I’ll eat rest.”

“Scrumptious,” Ferdinand says, and dumps the entire vial onto Hubert’s sternum.

Hubert splutters in protest, but then there’s a splash of water from Ferdinand’s flask, and then Ferdinand’s swishing his fingers against Hubert’s chest to mix it all together, and Hubert is fairly certain he’ll black out just from the sensation of it alone, which is doing a _wonderful_ job of distracting from the pain—

“Sorry,” Ferdinand says. “I assumed it was faster than hunting for a bowl.” Paste mixed, he scoops the wet clay-like substance onto his fingertips and begins to paint it across Hubert’s wound. The paste stings viciously, and Hubert hisses, jerking away from his touch, until Ferdinand presses his other hand to Hubert’s shoulder to steady him. “Shush, you.”

Hubert grimaces and forces himself to relax, even as his skin is on fire. And perhaps Ferdinand doesn’t realize he’s doing it, but that steadying hand is patting his cheek, soothing him, brushing dark bangs from his feverish face.

And the vineworm toxin in Hubert’s blood quite helpfully reminds him that the last time they were this close, the last time Ferdinand touched his face so tenderly, he’d called Hubert _lovely_ and asked to kiss him—

“D’you still think’m—love—” Hubert coughs. Damn this poison, reducing him to a blithering _fool_.

Ferdinand’s fingers still, and Hubert flinches. Might as well focus on the lava creeping through his blood now as the paste counteracts the toxin. Finally, Ferdinand asks, “Were those supposed to be _words_, or—”

“No,” Hubert all but shouts. Which means it comes out as a miserable whine. “The rest of—paste—”

“Oh. Yes.” Ferdinand uses his other hand to scoop the remaining paste onto his fingertips, and then the forest goes deathly silent, or so it seems to Hubert, as they are both staggered by the same realization at the same time of just what Ferdinand had been about to do.

“Erm,” Ferdinand says. “Uh. I don’t know what, ah, else to—”

“Just—give it—”

And then Ferdinand is swiping his fingers into Hubert’s mouth, and he can swear he _hears_ the vineworm toxin laughing at him as he crudely laps the paste off of lean, elegant fingers and salty skin. A minty numbness blooms from Hubert’s mouth and down his throat as the paste begins to do its work, which is very fortunate because his addled brain is thinking far too much about wrapping those fingers in kisses and chasing them up Ferdinand’s wrist and pulling him down and begging to him understand why Hubert had to stay away—

And so it’s a very good thing the paste’s analgesic effect take holds just then, and the last thing he hears is Ferdinand urging him to get some rest before he’s in the woolly haze once again.

* * *

Hubert awakens with a wicked headache and an excruciating pain on his left side. He twists his head with a crunch of leaves and blinks the sleep from his eyes.

“Ferdie?”

They’re in the woods—right on the edge of nightfall. Flames, how long has he been out? He tries to sit up, but the thick gauze binding wrapped around his torso puts an end to that, and he rolls back to the ground with a groan.

“Ferdie?” he asks again.

And then all the memories of what an absolute _ass_ he made of himself under the vineworm effects comes rushing at him all at once, and he brings a fist to his mouth to stifle a scream. Void’s sake. Was he honestly _licking Ferdinand’s fingers _like some kind of starved mutt? Did he ask if he still thought him _lovely_? What kind of colossal imbecile—

A crunch of leaves, and then Ferdinand drops to his knees at Hubert’s side. “There you are, silly.” Even in the fading light, his smile is as radiant as ever. “Feeling more like yourself?”

“Like I was trampled by the cavalry.” Hubert tries to sit up again, and thankfully, this time Ferdinand helps shove him upright. “Thank you. I—I owe you my life—”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Vineworm isn’t lethal.” Ferdinand’s hand is still on his shoulder, but with a fading smile, he removes it. “I must admit, though, it was amusing to see you discombobulated for once.”

Well, that was _one_ word for it. “Forgive me if I said anything too abhorrent.”

“Mm. If you like,” Ferdinand says, the smile returning.

Hubert frowns. “I—I didn’t, did I?”

“Oh, nothing I’ll repeat.” Ferdinand drops down to sit cross-legged before him. “How is your appetite?”

“Eurgh. I’d better not risk it for a few more hours, at least.” Hubert glances overhead, but the tree canopy is blocking his view of the stars. “Where are we, anyhow? We really ought to try to make it to Galatea territory before—”

“With that wound? You are utterly ridiculous. No. No hard riding for you, von Vestra.”

The sudden formality is like a slap, knocking off any lingering glow he’d felt from Ferdinand carefully tending to his wounds. “Then I fear we’ll be easy prey.”

Ferdinand sighs; draws his knees up toward his chin. “Maybe that’s for the best. If they were trying to kill us earlier—”

“Well. They likely hadn’t heard word yet as to our predicament. With any luck now, that’s changed.”

“Fugitive lovers.” Ferdinand sighs; looks down at his hands. “Goddess, I hope it’s enough for them to take us alive. The soldiers this morning certainly didn’t seem interested in whatever intelligence advantage we could offer them.”

“Von Riegan is no fool, and he’s not wasteful, either. I imagine the next confrontation will go much differently.”

Ferdinand smiles sadly at him. “I hope you’re right. I don’t need you slicing yourself up on my behalf anymore.”

Hubert’s face burns, and he considers denying it—but there’s really no point. He’d flung himself in front of that glaive; that much was painfully clear. So much for not letting Ferdinand be a vulnerable point for him.

“Listen, Ferdie, I . . .” Hubert winces, shame weighing him down with a dull press. But he can put this off no longer. “Before we find ourselves in Alliance custody, there is perhaps something you should know. I . . .”

But he stops, recalling the brutal blow he felt yesterday when he’d braided Ferdinand’s hair, and quite abruptly was confronted with the fact he was still harboring a grudge all these years. Perhaps the last thing he needs to do is pour salt in the wound. He never sent any of his apologies, true, but he hadn’t expected Ferdinand to be quite so resentful still. Had he really injured Ferdinand’s pride so much?

“It’s been five years,” Ferdinand says abruptly. “Don’t bother.”

He wants to bother. He’s always wanted to bother. But now, as then, he refuses to be a weak point for them both.

“I shouldn’t have lost control of myself yesterday. It won’t happen again.” The smile he dons is so painfully forced, so fractured like a broken vase badly reglued. Flames. Hubert had no idea just how much hatred was simmering beneath the surface of their seeming friendship these days. Is it really so torturous to Ferdinand to be inflicted with his mere presence? “We can get through this mission like professionals.”

“Ah. Uh. That is . . . that’s good to know.” Hubert winces. “But, well. I was actually—um. I was going to warn you about something else—”

He stops abruptly at a snap of twigs somewhere in the forest around them.

Ferdinand glances over his shoulder, peering into darkness. His lips part as he grabs a dagger from the bedroll where Hubert was spread out. With a raised eyebrow, Hubert recognizes the dagger at the one he usually keeps strapped to his side.

“Stay where you are!” a stately voice calls, in as close to calligraphy as one can possibly speak. “We have you surrounded. In the name of House Gloucester—”

Ferdinand drops the dagger. “_Lorenz_?”

A handful of torches suddenly flare to life all around them, and Lorenz Hellman Gloucester himself struts forward, purple and gold armor gleaming. “Ferdinand! You sly dog. I couldn’t believe it when I heard—”

Ferdinand bounds to his feet and all but _flings_ himself at their old classmate, who eagerly returns his embrace. Hubert simply waits for the thousand different baffled emotions within him to sort themselves out.

“Goodness.” As Ferdinand peels himself away from Lorenz, Lorenz steps forward, peering down at Hubert with a wry twist on thin lips. “It really is true, then. You and _von _Vestra. My goddess, I thought you got over your infatuation _ages_ ago—”

“Hah! Oh, how hilarious you are!” Ferdinand forces a high laugh. “Oh, we, uh, well, he took me to supper just after the new year, you see, and confessed in great detail to his burning desire for me—”

Hubert’s stare intensifies.

“And you have to admit, he does have his qualities, too. Like his—uh.” Ferdinand swallows. Studies Hubert for a moment before looking away, and the redness entrenches itself further on Hubert’s face. “He is—um. He’s very good with . . . paperwork?”

_Paperwork?_ Hubert mouths at him, as Lorenz turns his back to signal to his soldiers. Ferdinand offers him a helpless shrug.

Wonderful. The closest thing Ferdinand can imagine to complimenting him these days is his gift for _paperwork_. He considers burying himself in the leaves and waiting to be composted.

“Oh, Ferdinand. Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste in matters of the heart.”

Ferdinand scratches at the back of his neck as Lorenz turns back. “Yes, well, what can I say, I was swept off my feet . . .”

“Well, I’m terribly sorry to have to do this to you, gentlemen. But the trouble is, you’re wanted men, you see.” Lorenz splays his hands at his sides as his soldiers move forward with clanking manacles. “And you _are_ on Alliance lands, and as you’re currently amassing soldiers on our border, it would seem we are at war. So . . .”

Hubert flinches as a soldier wrenches his arms behind his back. “If you bloody tear my wound back open—”

Lorenz smiles thinly. “I’m afraid you’re both going to have to come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** The Alliance has several questions.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
PLEASE CHECK OUT THIS INCREDIBLE FANART!!!!  
**
> 
> [Denial & Deception Romance Novel Cover](https://twitter.com/astriferous/status/1186128569094807553) by @astriferous
> 
> ["To a successful mission." (Ch 3)](https://twitter.com/hesioddreaming/status/1187015824273338369) by @hesioddreaming
> 
> ["And for the first time, Hubert can't say for certain whether Ferdinand is pretending." (Ch 3)](https://twitter.com/TheStarkindler/status/1187803055447773184) by @TheStarKindler
> 
> \--
> 
> Thank you so much to **SIGF** for beta reading!
> 
> Time for ~An Interrogatory Interlude~   
Apologies that this chapter is so short, but Chapter 7 will be posted no later than Tuesday!

** _A NONDESCRIPT QUESTIONING ROOM SOMEWHERE BENEATH DERDRIU._ **

“So. Lord von Aegir. Ferdinand. _Ferdie_.” A soft smile. “My goodness, it has been some time.”

“Hasn’t it just! I am so terribly sorry for not answering your latest letters, my dear Gloucester. But I am sure you understand—It’s just not the done thing between soldiers on opposing sides, is it? Although I suppose we need not worry about that now. My. How . . . how strange a sentiment.”

“Oh, dear Ferdie. There’s no need to look so forlorn. Here, I brought you something to warm you up after that long march.”

“It is not . . . poisoned, is it?”

“Heavens, no! You really have been around your gloomy little rain cloud too long, haven’t you? It’s Srengi milk tea—a specialty of one of the Sreng cafés here in town. A freshly steeped batch, with a bit of condensed milk, and then a dash of evaporated milk as well.”

“Well! I do prefer my tea neat, but never let it be said I am not adventurous . . . Oh! Oh, Lorenz, this really is delightful!” A nervous laugh. “My apologies for the distrust. It has been a difficult few days, you see . . .”

“Darling, I understand completely. We were all quite shocked to hear the reports out of the old monastery. Though I suppose it was bound to happen one way or another, with that . . . _woman_ in charge.”

“Ah. Reports? As in, from your spies?”

“Erm. Well. In any case, it sounds like you all had quite the spectacular row with Her Majesty. I must say, though, I am a bit surprised to hear she disapproved of your relationship. After all, I assumed she was all in favor of . . .” A delicate cough. “_You_ know.”

“I am afraid I do not. In favor of what?”

“Erm.” Two index fingers outstretched, brushing side-by-side. “You know.”

“Are you . . . making a fire?”

A heavy sigh, and then index and middle fingers stretched into Vs, slotted together and twisted back and forth. “Ferdinand. Must I spell it out?”

“Oh—_Ohhh._ Yes, that. You will have to forgive me. Almost as soon as Her Majesty threw out the Church, she made it explicitly legal, even for Crest-bearers. None of this ‘unquestioned, unspoken’ nonsense like the old Empire. And without my father breathing down my neck about marrying a suitable lady, it has been downright blissful. I simply . . . feel like myself, you know?”

“Dear Ferdie. It’s never not been the case in the Alliance, mind you, to—ah, to—” Another nervous cough. “To _enter into relations _as one chooses, but I can only imagine. But, well. If that wasn’t Her Majesty’s objection, then I confess I don’t understand what the whole fuss was _about_.”

A chair creaking with shifted weight. “. . . Perhaps I should start from the beginning?”

“By all means. Especially the part about—_him_, of all people.” Off Ferdinand’s flushing cheeks—“Because last I remember, you were sobbing into a pillow in the dormitory and threatening to burn your dancer costume—”

“Oh! Well, we needn’t dwell on all that! Ha, ha! What silly, simple times those were! And,” leaning conspiratorially over the table, “I dare say both of us have far better here these days.”

“Right you are, darling, as ever.”

“And I must say, dear Lorenz, you _are _looking exceptionally radiant now. Perhaps you have found a sweet someone to _enter into relations with_ of your own?”

“Oh, goodness, Ferdie. What a question! I—I really shouldn’t gossip, but . . .”

“Indulge me? I will beg you if I must. It has been far too long since we enjoyed our late breakfast in the town outside the monastery. I am starved for all the lurid details.”

“Oh, I suppose if you can keep it in confidence . . .” Fingers fluttering against an enameled rose brooch. “There _is_ a handsome fellow who has been—erm—warming my bed of late.”

“_Lorenz!_ How scandalous! I always assumed you were one for proper courtship rituals and contracts.”

“—I am still uncertain as to his intentions, ultimately. Though I confess I am enjoying the pleasure of his company without those rigorous pressures, it would be nice to . . . understand the situation better.”

“Wouldn’t it, indeed. We must get this sorted for you, then! Tell me everything. How does he treat you away from the bedroom—”

“Wait, wait. I am so terribly sorry, Ferdinand, but—I’ve allowed myself to get caught up in sentiment and reminiscence. Not to be crass, but this is supposed to be _your _interrogation.”

“Another time, then.” A strained smile as a teacup clatters down. “So, what do you wish to know?”

“Honestly? I suppose my first question has to be—Why _him_? When it was clearly going to cost you your place at the Emperor’s side? Especially after he so callously broke your heart—”

“Oh, it was not so dramatic as all that!”

“You sobbed yourself into a _state_, people thought someone had _died_—”

Fingers curling tight in his lap. “It has been five years—we were just young and foolish, after all, and now we’ve been through upheaval and battle together . . . And he has . . . changed.” Gaze cast far away, but a smile too touched with sorrow. “Being with him, outside of the pressures of organizing a military campaign, it has been a—a breath of fresh air. _She_ thought it was a distraction for both of us, of course—it’s why she disapproved—but l-loving him has been the best part of my days.” A smile pulling tighter, now. “Especially as the fractures within the empire grew and grew.”

“And _he_ was worth throwing it all away for? Truly, Ferdie.”

“Given the direction things have been taking in this war for some time now—Uh, what with the, uh—professor’s return, and the renewed campaign—And then my darling and his own increasing dissatisfaction with Her Majesty’s decisions—”

“Your _darling_? Oh, come, now.”

The flush turns deep plum. “Well, he is!”

“He is the human embodiment of a scowl.”

“. . . I know.” A lengthy pause. “But when we are alone, when the sinisterness and posturing are gone, then the loyal, thoughtful, devoted man who remains . . .”

“. . . Ferdinand? Are you all right?”

“Oh. Terribly sorry.” Blinking rapidly. “I just . . . I swallowed my tea the wrong way, is all.”

* * *

** _A SECOND QUESTIONING ROOM._ **

“Soooo. Hubert von Vestra. Hubie-Wubie. Mister Spooky-spooky himself.”

“. . . Lady Goneril.”

“Edie’s little lapdog. Looks like you’re just a sad, starved stray now. _Gosh_. How’s that feel, Hubie-Wubie?”

“It was my—choice.”

“Oh, yeah, you sound real sure about that.”

“Her Majesty disapproved of us. One of her many ill-advised decisions of late. And so we decided to leave.”

“Suuure. We’re really supposed to believe that _you_, of all people, abandoned Emperor Friendzone for a piece of ass?”

“—There are—_so_ many erroneous assumptions there I don’t even know where to begin—”

“Although, ooh, cavaliers, am I right? Probably a pretty juicy ass—”

A fierce snarl. “First of all, Her Majesty has never ‘friendzo-’—ugh—there has never been any romantic sentiment between us, requited or otherwise, and it is an insult to what we share—what we shared—”

“Still defending her, huh? Even after she tossed you out in the cold—”

“And secondly, there was no _tossing_ involved. Von Aegir and I left of our own accord. There have been fractures spreading through the Black Eagles Strike Force for some time now, and her increasingly irrational decisions merely hastened our choice to depart—”

“And, boy, wouldn’t I love to hear all about these ‘fractures’—”

“And if you _must_ know, it is an exceptional ass. A _divine_ ass. As is the whole of von Aegir. So, yes, his blasted—enthusiasm, his quick mind, his eager and vast heart, and every part of him—I feel bound, inextricably, to him now, as though he is this column of light that’s pierced me through, and try as I might, I can’t break free—and I no longer want to, quite frankly, even if it costs me every—What?”

Arms folding; eyebrows skimming against pink bangs.

“What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Fuck me softly, Seiros. You really _are_ in love with him, huh?”

“_I MOST CERTAINLY AM N—Am._ Yes. _Yes, I am._” Boots shuffling as he draws himself upright. “That is what I said.”

“Like—’abandon the emperor and run away, fantasize about your wedding, ditch your lifelong oath, get busy in the cathedral’ in love.”

“Wait. How did you hear about that last—”

“Oopsie.” One finger twisting in pink hair. “Did I just reveal how deep we’ve got spies crammed up the empire’s ass? Golly gee! If _only_ you were still in a position to do anything about it.”

“What is this fixation of yours with—”

“Anyway, not your problem anymore, is it, Hubie-Wubie? You’re out of a job. Can’t even imagine how that feels for someone like you. Me personally, I’d love some time off, but the boss-man says no, we’ve got an impending invasion to repel . . .”

“I’m sure I’ll find some way to occupy myself. Presuming you deign to allow us to be on our way.”

“Hah, sure. I don’t think that’s up to me.”

A weary sigh. “Von Riegan, then?”

“That’s part of it. But I think it’s _also_ up to you.”

* * *

“Well! If it isn’t Ferdinand von Aegir. Victor of the White Heron Cup. Love the new look. Seems like you’ve been making a lot of big changes lately, huh?”

“Lord von Riegan! You are looking well yourself.”

“What’s not to love? It’s springtime, the birds are singing, and I’ve got two of the highest-ranked men in the whole damned Adrestian Empire stumbling like a bunch of drunken idiots through my forests.”

“If you _must_ know, we were only passing through. We’d been intending to book safe passage at the port of Derdriu when your soldiers so rudely attacked us and injured my Hubert.”

“Sucks, huh? No, really, I apologize about that. Pretty damned inconsiderate of them.”

“I should say so!”

“After all, if they’d killed him, I’d lose half of this incredible gift.” Leaning over the table. “And I _do_ mean incredible. As in, I am finding myself incredulous.”

“Oh. Well.” Tugging at his collar. “I am not certain what you mean.”

“Two weeks ago, no one had heard thing one about the two of you outside of your weekly tea parties. Then suddenly you’re everywhere, hooking up in the cathedral and shouting down the emperor herself? Either you move way faster than I’d have given you credit for, or there’s something else going on.”

“I move at a perfectly respectable pace, thank you _very_ much. Perhaps your spies are just not so clever as they think.”

“Yeah? Enlighten me.”

“As if I would aid you—Oh. Mm. I suppose I am not in much a position to protest anymore, am I?”

“You tell me, Ferdinand. How do _you_ see this position you’re in right now?”

“I think we are, as you say, two of the highest-ranked men in the whole empire until very recently, and though we loved the empire as it was, we are none too thrilled with this new direction it has taken.”

“This direction where you get called disloyal just because you like sucking face with her retainer.”

“I—ah—yes.”

“Even though _she_’s pretty busy sucking face with her former professor these days.”

“Erm.” A leg crossed delicately. “That is part of the problem, as well. The sheer hypocrisy of it, firstly—and secondly, the decisions Byleth is steering her toward—I just cannot say I approve of them. As a general and as an adviser. So really, it was a maelstrom of circumstances that led to our departure.”

“Huh. Yeah. But you and Hubert—that was the big one, right? Star-crossed lovers, and all that.”

“Yes, well . . . the heart wants what it wants, does it not?”

“You tell me. Just how long has this been going on?—This time around, I mean.”

Head ducking; a curtain of hair falling across a freckled face. “O-oh. Is there—is there anyone in the Alliance who has not heard about that—”

“Look, school life at the monastery was pretty damn boring, right up until the point it wasn’t. We had to take whatever gossip we could get. And you know Lorenz. He gets hold of some scrap of drama in another house and he just can’t keep it to himself.”

“He does seem to be getting better at keeping his lips sealed these days. Regrettably.” Eyes cutting sideways. “Oh, say, von Riegan, that is a _lovely_ pin you are sporting on your sash.”

A hand closing over a tiny enameled red rosebud; one eyebrow arcing up. “Huh. It sure is. Feeling clever, Ferdinand?”

“I might be.”

“Maybe that’s why I have a hard time trusting you. You’re easy to underestimate.”

“I—I am certain I don’t know what you mean.”

“C’mon. You’re cleverer than you act. And if you wanted to get a close-up look at the Alliance military—”

“What do you mean, _cleverer than I act_?”

“Ferdie. Please. I don’t know if you have a middle name, but ‘subtle’ isn’t it.”

“Not you, too—”

“And after you’ve been mooning over von Vestra for the past five years—light only knows why, given what an idiotic shit he’s been to you—you suddenly, what, forgive him enough to run away with him? To run away from your home?”

“He . . . simply needed to apologize properly, is all. An apology and a grand gesture of romance—that is all I ask.”

“And he did those things?”

“Y-yes.”

“Okay. Sure.” Fingers pinching the bridge of a nose. “What are you hoping to get out of all of this, Ferdinand? What’s the endgame here?”

“I . . . confess we do not have one, yet. We had considered heading to Almyra, or points further east. But in the end . . . we merely wish for safe haven. Once we’ve secured that, then we will concern ourselves with an occupation.” A wistful sigh. “All I truly want is to spend my days with my darling. I am less worried about the specifics.”

“Hah, yeah, sure. I’m just gonna . . . talk a few things over with my lieutenants. Oh, by the way—”

“Hmm?”

“Does he still have that cute little mole on his left thigh? You know the one.”

Eyes going wide—“I’m—I—”

“Hah! I’m just fuckin’ with ya. Aren’t I? Anyway. Sit tight, Ferdie.”

* * *

“Minister von Vestra.” An armored fist smashing against a tabletop. “What exactly are your intentions with our Ferdinand?”

“—Hello to you, too, Gloucester—”

“First, you break his heart at school. In quite an appalling manner, if I may say so—”

“That was _five years ago_. And I don’t see how it is any business of yours—”

“Not my business? Whose bloody shoulder do you think he sobbed all over? Although I will grant you, I never approved of his infatuation with you to begin with, so I had _no_ difficulty assuring him what a cruel, heartless slug you were—”

“Infatua—” Jaw tightening. “I mean—I see your point. Consider me duly scolded. In any case, that’s all in the past now.”

Violet eyes narrowing. “Is it, though?”

“Well, I should damned well hope so, seeing as how I agreed to abandon the empire for him—”

“And how is he to know you won’t change your mind about that, too? Will you simply wake up tomorrow morning, and stab him in the heart yet again with some intolerable tripe about your duty? About your wants and your bloody emperor—”

“. . . Oh.” Gaze cast downward; far wearier, now. “. . . He said all that, did he?”

“And plenty else. And seeing as how you went off and started a little religious war in the intervening time, I confess I haven’t been able to keep up with my dear friend half as much as I’d have liked, so I am unaware of any improvement in your character since then beyond what I see displayed in _aforementioned war—_”

“Enough. Please.” Flinching away. “But know that any regret I may feel on leaving Her Majesty’s service—It is far too late for such things. We have well and truly torched that bridge behind us, wouldn’t you say?”

“Have you? You tell me, von Vestra.”

“I sit here before you, a prisoner, it would seem, of your little Alliance, with nothing to show for it but my love for—for Ferdinand—”

Hands clenching together in his lap.

“Ferdinand is all I have now. And perhaps it took me five years to appreciate it, but he is all I need.”

“. . . Oh, my.”

A dark glare. “What?”

“Given how shocked you look at _yourself _right now, I’m assuming you have not told him that yourself.”

“I—Perhaps not in so many words.”

“Well, maybe you should.”

* * *

“Ferdinand! Ferdinand von A. Ferdie. Ferdielicious.”

“Uh. Hello, Lady Goneril.”

“Isn’t this hilarious? Like, really, totally, _lit-er-all-y_ hilarious. Man. I’m laughing. See, this is my laughing face.”

“I am not certain what you mean?”

“Because of _you_, dumbass! Back at school, you couldn’t shut the fuck up about nobility and propriety and honor and blah, blah, blah. And now look at you! You gave up your lands and your title all to follow that whiny little emperor in her dipshit vendetta. And then—_then_—you run away because of, like, assassin dick or whatever, and don’t even have an empire to show for everything you gave up! So much for honor, huh? So much for _propriety._”

“That is hardly an accurate assessment, but—”

“Well, hey, you made it out with your spooky little rat boy, so . . . I guess that’s a win? Question-mark?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I do happen to think so. I—I love him.” A heavy swallow. “And he is quite handsome, so if you would refrain from calling him a ‘rat boy,’ I would appreciate it.”

Gum cracking. “Huh. I guess they say there’s someone for everyone . . .”

“Erm—in any case—you _are_ correct that we are now rather short one homeland.”

“You sure are. Like I said. _Hilarious._”

A long silence.

“Ferdie von A. Are you maybe under the impression that that’s _my_ problem somehow?”

“You tell me, Hilda. You all are the ones who took us into custody. We would have been perfectly content to merely pass through your lands, but since you took it upon yourselves . . .”

“Well, see, here’s the thing, Ferdie. They may have kicked you out of the empire, but they couldn’t take all those juicy little secrets out of your head, so I think we should have some fun . . . juicing them.”

“That sounds . . . appalling?”

“You say appalling, I say hilarious!”

“S-surely there is a better way to go about it? Something less . . . dribbly?”

“Well, I happen to like it messy, but I’m open to suggestion.” Another pop of gum. “What have you got in mind?”

“As you say, we do in fact know a great deal of Imperial secrets. And you have land well-suited to repel any incursion by the Imperial Army should they attempt to silence us. I am sure some kind of bargain can be struck.”

A big, toothy smile. “Ferdie. I never thought I’d say this, but I like the way you think.”

* * *

“Well, Gloombert, I’d say this is an amusing twist of fate, but even I don’t think fate is that clever.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, von Riegan.”

“You don’t think so? After all that trouble I went to shove you in von Aegir’s direction at school—”

“If by that you mean your constant harassment—”

“And after you so cruelly brushed off my advances! Your blood really does run ice-cold, huh?”

“Your advances? You mean when you flirted incessantly with me at the sauna? Hrrmph. As if there was a single soul at the whole academy who wasn’t your target for that.”

“Hardly true. There were plenty of people I didn’t flirt with.”

“Name even _one_.”

“Okay.” A wry smirk. “Ferdinand.”

“. . . And why not? He’s—unbearably gorgeous.” Eyes quickly darting away. “I mean—”

“Aww, look at you, still lovesick after all these years. See, when you brushed me off—_cruelly_, in case I didn’t say so before—I realized it was because you only had eyes for him. It was way more fun to play matchmaker for you two. Even if you did manage to fuck that up pretty royally.”

“Well, at least I sorted it out now, right? Goodness, you’re more of a damned meddler than Miss Arneault.”

“Hah, I’ll take that title. But none of this solves the question of what to do with the two of you now.”

“The crown jewel in your meddling, I’m sure.”

“Well, here’s what I’m thinking. There’s two possibilities here.” Two boots propping up on the desk, one after the other. “Option A. You two really are the absolutely disastrous, heartsick imbeciles I’ve always known you to be—which you are, whether you realize it or not—and you’re going to bring the might of the Adrestian Empire down on us. A might that isn’t so mighty without the two of you, I will allow.”

“That’s assuming they know we are here.”

A knowing look. “Please. I know you’ve still got _some_ spies here I haven’t caught yet.”

“. . . All right, and the other possibility?”

“This is all an elaborate ploy to infiltrate my capital. A completely _ridiculous_, elaborate ploy, I should add, though I’m kind of in awe of the gall of it, if so.”

“I’m glad you find our predicament so amusing, von Riegan.”

“Just laying all my cards on the table. Which makes it your turn, I believe.”

“My turn for what?”

“You all want safe haven from the emperor. So. What are you willing to give us for it?”

* * *

“_Ferdie_.”

“Darling! Your wound—Are you all right—”

“Did they hurt you—”

Open arms, rushing together—and either a miscalculation or a failure to check one’s concern—perhaps one mouth aiming at a forehead while the other aimed for a cheek—but the end result is lips glancing against lips, a soft inhale of breath, a widened stare, a soft, barely whimpered _Oh._

A stare that continues. A charged shiver in the air.

The whispered ghost of the kiss weighing against them both.

A subtle clearing of the throat from the other side of the room. “Gentlemen?”

Both startling—but not breaking apart. Hands slid around opposing waists. Stronger. Bolstering each other, now.

Bracing.

“You are free to move about the capital of Derdriu, on a temporary basis. You’ll be given accommodations and a modest allowance. And, of course, a contingent of Alliance guards. For your safety.” A thin smile. “If you choose to leave the city, you can do so, provided you’re escorted by one of my designated lieutenants.”

“Thank you, your—your lordship—Duke? Premier? Ah, apologies, von Riegan, I am not actually certain of your title—”

“Claude will do just fine, Ferdie. But—in exchange for all this—”

Holding tighter—

“I will summon you to give me regular intelligence debriefs. At the time and on the subject of my choosing. No questions asked. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, von Riegan. Claude, I mean. Truly, I cannot thank you enough for your generosity—you have spared us in our time of need, and whatever you require—”

“—Hubert? How about you?”

Fingers stroking at Ferdinand’s side. “Whatever I must do to keep Ferdinand safe.”

“Great. And once we’ve dealt with this little imperial threat . . . then we can discuss more permanent solutions.”

An unsteady exhale of breath.

“In that case, gentlemen . . . welcome to the Alliance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@Bohemienne6](http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6)
> 
> [Ferdibert Week 2019 is coming!](http://twitter.com/ferdibertweek) Join us in celebrating these ridiculous lovesick fools!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **New Denial & Deception Fanart!**
> 
> [Ferdinand Does the Math (Ch 6)](https://twitter.com/WoeArt/status/1188642707058626560) by @WoeArt
> 
> [Crying on Lorenz's Shoulder (Ch 6)](https://twitter.com/loafeoil/status/1188834213652508680) by @loafeoil

Given the rocky hilltops where Derdriu is set like a cluster of jewels, the city’s streets are doing an admirable job of approximating straight lines. But their open-top carriage can hardly move a block before they are confronted with a sharp, winding road up one of the hills, or a bridge spanning the vast web of canals, or an abrupt vista onto the vast turquoise sea around which the city is wrapped in a loving embrace.

Granted, everything Ferdinand knows of Derdriu and its layout, he knows from sketching out invasion plans for the Adrestian Army, but he chooses not to dwell on that as the merchants and artisans and gondoliers wave to their carriage as they pass.

“It’s stunning,” Ferdinand whispers, and his hand tightens around Hubert’s. “I want to explore all of it.”

Hubert’s entire body goes tense as the carriage edges along a cliffside road that tilts precariously toward the ocean below. “Th-then we shall, my dear.”

Ferdinand smiles at him, in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, and—Saints bless him for trying—Hubert musters a tiny smile back.

“There is no shortage of sights for you to take in,” Lorenz narrates from the front bench, seated beside the curricle’s driver. “The canal gondolas are lovely now that the weather’s turning. You can charter a sailboat for an afternoon as well to explore the bay. I’m partial to the Leicester Collection over on that hill—an extensive gallery of art from eastern Fódlan, Almyra, and Morfis. Oh! And the food. It’s divine. You’ll love it, Ferdie. You simply must visit the Almyran bazaar down by the Duke’s Plaza . . . Their coffeehouses are divine.”

Ferdinand nudges Hubert with his shoulder at that, and Hubert’s smile deepens. “You see? We can even get you some coffee. _Fancy_ coffee.”

“It’s all the same to me,” Hubert says, but his deeper grin betrays him.

Ferdinand nestles in at his side as they curve down another hill and move parallel to one of the wide, twisting canals. With the sky vast and the air clean and the ancient city singing around them, it’s too easy to pretend that this is nothing but a holiday they’ve taken together; that Hubert’s hand is in his because he’s chosen it; that the next few days will bring nothing but leisure and the pleasure of one another’s company.

And possibly, unnervingly, more kisses like the one they shared in the questioning room—fleeting and chaste and yet jolting through Ferdinand for how unexpected it was. He hadn’t intended it, but he hadn’t not intended it, either—because it was what their cover demanded, and would continue to demand, now—And at least now they’ve gotten it over with, perhaps now it will be easier to feign—

But this is the most dangerous part yet. They’ve earned the Alliance’s trust, however tentatively, but they are perched in the beast’s jaws, so to speak, and one misstep means certain death. For all their camaraderie, he knows Lorenz will not hesitate to turn on him if he threatens the Alliance (and to say nothing of Claude!). And from the sound of it, any exploration he and Hubert undertake—any discreet assessment of the city’s defenses, its military presence—will have to be conducted under countless scrutinizing eyes.

But for now, Ferdinand will enjoy that salty breeze, the warmth of Hubert at his side, and the pleasant prattling of his old friend before him. After the way this month has gone thus far, he has earned the right to pretend.

“Doing all right, love?” he murmurs to Hubert, bowing his head closer.

A pale eye studies him sideways, but those soft, elegant lips are still smiling, and Ferdinand feels an ache in his chest at the sight of them. “Never better.”

Hubert turns toward him and places a gentle kiss to Ferdinand’s temple, and yet the ache only deepens.

“So long as you are safe,” Hubert says softly, “as long as you are happy—I can want for nothing more.”

Ferdinand’s breath catches when he opens his mouth to answer; he can’t seem to find a fitting response. Well, that’s Hubert own fault for laying it on so thick. So he only smiles and rests his head against his shoulder.

Hubert sighs—annoyed by Ferdinand’s snuggling, no doubt, but let him be annoyed—and strokes his thumb over the ridge of Ferdinand’s knuckles.

“Ah. Here we are, gentlemen.”

They’re about a block up one of the hillsides from a canal, stopping before a stucco villa set apart from the denser rowhomes and storefronts that wind higher up the same road. A garden wall marks the property, with bougainvillea in pinks and oranges spilling over it from an overflowing garden. Tall, narrow pines line the backside of the garden. And then the house itself . . .

“Oh, Lorenz. This is too much.”

The villa is small but stately, a colonnaded porch wrapping around the front as gauzy curtains billow out of open windows. From the red-tiled roof to the weathered stone façade to granite flooring, he can only imagine the opulent Derdrian style that awaits them within.

“Nonsense! Only the best for you, von Aegir.”

Lorenz hops down from the curricle’s bench and opens the door on Ferdinand’s side, but Hubert drops Ferdinand’s hand and lets himself out the other side. “Ferdie, dear, allow me.”

Lorenz rolls his eyes where only Ferdinand can see as Hubert circles around the carriage, and Ferdinand stifles a laugh. Then Hubert approaches and—rather than merely offer a hand to help Ferdinand down—_hoists_ him into the air, grasping beneath both his armpits, and sweeps him onto the cobbled street.

Ferdinand’s mouth opens, but once again he can’t seem to find the right words. Or any words. Instead he’s struck by the sunlight grazing Hubert’s face, softening the harsh shadows, melting his usual scowl into a look of warmth and joy.

All things considered, he’d prefer the scowl.

“I, ah . . .” Huberts starts, then glances away, moistening his lips. “If this is to be our new home,” he says, “then I want to welcome you into it properly.”

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, heat blooming on his face. His gaze drifts toward Hubert’s lips, as if of its own accord.

“Ugh. At least wait until I’ve left.” Lorenz turns on his heel and stalks toward the villa.

Hubert’s hand is steady at his back as he follows Ferdinand through the gates and up the steps to the front door. By now Ferdinand is used to the feel of it, its warmth; the thought of walking with Hubert beside him _without_ feeling that touch would feel . . . lopsided, somehow. He winces, cursing himself for even thinking it. Of course he will get used to its absence once more, once their mission is done. But for now, he appreciates its steadiness. Hubert is his anchor back to himself, to his real self.

Even if it’s only pretending for them both.

“Lorenz.” Ferdinand stares as he drags his attention back to the villa itself. Dark stone and rich wood and opulent tile as far as the eye can see. Despite its modest size, the house feels vast; a parlor and dining room stretch to their left as an office and, presumably, kitchens and servants’ quarters span the right. A staircase curls lazily around the foyer to lead toward the bedrooms.

“We use this to accommodate visiting dignitaries, usually. Hopefully the two of you will prove to be less of a headache.” Lorenz raises an eyebrow. “Well. Maybe.”

“We won’t be any trouble at all,” Ferdinand says hurriedly, before Hubert—glower back in full force—has a chance to open his mouth.

“You’ll forgive me, then, that your household staff won’t arrive until tomorrow. It was short notice, after all.” Lorenz claps his hands together. “Then I’ll leave you lovebirds to get settled in. Ferdie, are we still set for a late breakfast and tea tomorrow?”

“Oh! Yes.” He’d almost forgotten.

“Excellent. I’ll send a driver around for you. Oh, and don’t forget. You needn’t worry about assassins in the night.” Lorenz draws a thin smile, and aims it right at Hubert. “We’ve got guards on every corner. For your safety, of course.”

“Of course,” Hubert grumbles, and grabs Ferdinand by the waist to pull him close. Ferdinand stifles a yelp and tries to melt comfortably to Hubert’s side, as if it were something he does all the time.

Lorenz laughs to himself, then inclines his head to Ferdinand once more. “Ta.”

As the front door slams shut, Ferdinand readies to heave out his breath—

And then Hubert buries his nose in the hair at Ferdinand’s temple and moves his lips right at Ferdinand’s ear, ticklish and overwhelming.

“Darling, do me a favor?” he murmurs, and Ferdinand’s heart leaps into his throat. There’s no one watching, them after all—

“—Yes?”

Hubert brushes the hair back from Ferdinand’s ear, sweeping it off his shoulder; tucks it tenderly behind his ear. Moves even closer. Ferdinand’s pulse is cantering now, his body overtuned—

“_Stay in character,_” Hubert mouths.

And then his heart is sinking, his muscles going slack. Even as the stern command runs like a finger down his spine. Even as the order should inject him with a rush of paranoia over unseen eyes.

Instead, it’s just another wedge prying open the fracture in his heart.

But if he is still in character—then there’s nothing wrong with turning to face Hubert. There’s no reason not to slide his arms up around Hubert’s neck. Hubert exhales as Ferdinand brings their faces close; bites his lower lip and gazes up into his eyes.

If they’re going to be in character even now—if they’re going to be putting on a show for their captors—

“Well?” Ferdinand asks, unwilling to look away. He has Hubert trapped, and he won’t lose this battle, too. “What did you have in mind, my love?”

“Um.”

His face is so close—it would take nothing at all to rise up on his toes, brush their lips together. He’s been so bold before. But like a kicked dog, he carries that splinter of hesitation under his skin—even if it would sell their act all the more.

Ferdinand wants, he realizes—he wants Hubert to kiss him first.

Which is absurd. It isn’t at all how their competition is meant to go—

“Well.” Hubert winces and quickly looks away. His hands rise to Ferdinand’s sides, but only to gently place some distance between them. “As much as I long to immerse myself fully in this blissful holiday—and in _you_, you radiant thing—”

Ferdinand chokes back a whimper, the compliment somehow unbearably cruel.

“I should very much like to wash the stink of our journey off of me and change the bandages on my wound.”

“Oh.” Ferdinand steps back; glances toward Hubert’s side. The thin shirt they’d given him at their questioning makes the bandages all too apparent at his left rib. “I suppose that’s reasonable.”

“But first, let us have a look around. See what they’ve provided us with.” Hubert’s narrowed eyes sweep toward the parlor. “Maybe after we wash up, we can explore the city at sunset.”

He stalks toward the parlor, and Ferdinand follows after him. Then stifles a yelp as Hubert begins to fling one cushion after another off of the couch.

“What are you—” Ferdinand starts to screech, but stops himself at a swift glare from Hubert.

“What a lovely arrangement. Although, maybe we should buy you a blanket for when you recline here? I know how cold your feet get in the night, darling.”

Ferdinand’s staring intensifies as Hubert drops down to his hands and knees and crawls underneath the coffee table. Then, quite abruptly, Hubert sticks his head back out and waves Ferdinand over. Motions for him to join him, with one finger pressed to his lips.

Ferdinand has no idea how any of this is supposed to convince some unseen spy, but crawls down next to Hubert and faces him, eyebrows furrowed.

Hubert huffs out a breath. Points up to the underside of the coffee table. Ferdinand follows his finger—

To find an intricate sigil painted on the table’s underside.

_Oh_, he mouths, and Hubert nods, scowl in full effect. Then he proceeds to pantomime something with his ear—presumably to indicate the ward is used for listening in. Ferdinand gestures to his own eyes, then lifts one hand in question, but Hubert shakes his head.

So their captors can hear, but not see them. Well. At least that spares them some level of acting—until the household staff arrives. Even if they can’t speak freely, they at least needn’t put on a visual performance, as well.

And yet the ache in Ferdinand’s chest doesn’t dissipate.

Hubert jerks his head, motioning for Ferdinand to follow him out from under the table, and they clamber out; Hubert holds out a hand to help pull Ferdinand to his feet. Ferdinand almost takes it without thinking this time; only the pleasant warmth of Hubert’s bare skin reminds him of how foreign and unfamiliar the act is. And yet he could get accustomed to it—is already doing so.

When Hubert tries to catch his gaze, Ferdinand looks away.

“Actually, if you’d like to bathe, why don’t you go first? I’ll continue to have a look around,” Hubert says. “Then after we’ve both freshened up, we can explore the neighborhood.”

Find somewhere safe to speak freely, he suspects Hubert means. “Thank you, darling. I’ll do just that.”

And then he is very aware if Hubert’s hand still closed around his own, long fingers curling possessively at his skin. He is aware of it, because Hubert is bringing their joined hands to his lips; because his mouth is ghosting over the back of Ferdinand’s hand, a kiss as ephemeral as the one they shared in the interrogation rooms. But Hubert is looking at him now, his movements slow and deliberate, his brow twisted, sorrowful.

_I’m sorry,_ he mouths, before releasing Ferdinand’s hand.

Apologizing. Of course. As if, of all the apologies Ferdinand wants to hear from him, he gives a damn about being eavesdropped on—

Ferdinand offers him the briefest smile before withdrawing his hand, and hurrying from the room.

* * *

Ferdinand is feeling much more human after luxuriating in the large clawfoot tub that dominates the upstairs bathing room. Unlike large swathes of the Adrestian Empire and the entirety of Garreg Mach, the villa has modern indoor plumbing installed, and it feels positively sinful to rinse out his hair beneath a running tap. He samples the many powders and lotions on the shelving, rubbing them over wind-chapped cheeks and lips and saddle-sore thighs, then indulges himself with a bright dab of cologne that smells of gardenias and sunshine behind both ears. He wraps himself up in a heavenly plush bathrobe and heads out into the cathedral-like bedroom to dress.

And runs face-first into a glowering, dust-covered Hubert instead.

“I suppose I’ll be lucky if there’s any water left in all of Derdriu for my bath,” Hubert says tartly—then, wincing, adds a hasty “_Darling._”

Ferdinand glowers right back. “How right you are, my love! Next time we will just have to bathe together.”

Hubert’s face goes berry-red, and he hurries to the doorway—but then pauses and turns back. “I, ah, took the liberty of laying out some clothing for you. Old habits,” he adds, with a wince.

“My lover is ever so dutiful,” Ferdinand says through clenched teeth. How gratifying, to know Hubert’s duty to Edelgard is still a ghostly passenger on their romantic voyage.

Hubert nods; lowers his chin. “You smell . . . nice.”

Ferdinand tries not to laugh at how much the compliment seems to pain him, and doesn’t quite succeed.

“Like a . . . sweet spring day come to life.”

“Every day is a sweet day of spring with you now, my darling.”

Hubert scrunches his entire face, now a becoming shade of plum, takes a deep breath, then stalks into the bathing room and slams the door.

Ferdinand shakes off his irritation and heads over to the bed—a four-postered massive confection of fluffy white sheets and pillows perched beneath the vaulted ceiling. Gauzy curtains shimmy in the breeze, tickling at his ankles. Hubert has indeed set out a blouse and breeches for him, but resting atop them both is a hastily scrawled note.

_Every room bears at least one eavesdropping sigil. Several windows have vantage points ideal for observation, as well. A nosy Almyran merchant was wandering up and down our block the entire time I was making my search._

_Please concoct a suitable excuse for us to leave the villa once I am out of the bath._

_ DESTROY THIS NOTE IMMEDIATELY. _

Ferdinand rolls his eyes and tosses the note on the bed. And Hubert calls him the dramatic one.

He hums an aria from _Pirates of Derdriu_ to himself as he sheds his bathrobe and pulls on a light, cream-colored blouse with loose sleeves and discreet ruffled edging—and then discovers, upon running out of buttons, that it’s considerably more low-cut than he anticipated.

Ferdinand turns to examine himself in the full-length mirror. It certainly doesn’t look _bad_, but there is rather more of his pectorals on display than he’d expected. Hubert probably missed that particular detail when selecting the garment. All the same, Ferdinand rather likes the style—it makes him feel like a proper Derdrian pirate himself. Or the lovelorn romantic interest in one of those romance novels Dorothea teased him about, his bosom exposed and heaving, ripe for seduction—

But now his face is flushing, so he supposes that’s quite enough of that.

Next, he wriggles into the rather tightly cut breeches, loosely tucks in his blouse, and fastens the buttons at either hip. Then, hair suitably fluffed, he gathers up the note from the bed to carry down to the kitchens.

From _their_ bed.

Ferdinand swallows. Apparently he’d managed to wrap himself around Hubert in the night when they’d shared a bed at the tavern. But this bed is considerably larger, and besides—now they’ve gotten the initial awkwardness out of the way. He can keep to his region of the immense mattress, and Hubert can keep to his little brooding fiefdom.

And it’s not as if anyone is going to be watching them _sleep_, for saints’ sake. Ferdinand laughs to himself. They shouldn’t be facing any interrogations as to just how intimately they choose to pass their evenings.

As long as they keep their story consistent . . .

Ferdinand shakes his head and hurries from the gargantuan bedroom to busy himself with destroying the note. They’re here for the good of the empire, after all—the mission comes first. And he thinks he has just the idea of where to take them.

* * *

As soon as they exit the villa, Ferdinand loops his arm low around Hubert’s waist and offers him a broad smile, which Hubert answers in his usual strained fashion. “You’re in a fine mood,” Hubert says, with an undercurrent of suspicion.

“How can I not be, darling? We have been granted a new life. Together, here under the merry Derdrian sun.” He rubs his cheek against Hubert’s shoulder. “That is a lovely color on you, by the way.”

Hubert is dressed similarly to himself, though he somehow managed to find a pair of black breeches amidst all the summery hues. Or possibly scorched them to black through sheer force of will. His tunic, though, is a very pale, steely lavender that offsets his cool complexion perfectly. “Oh, and you smell . . . nice . . . too.”

Hubert winces. “You’re having entirely too much fun with this at my expense,” he utters under his breath.

“And why should I not? I make my own entertainment.”

“At least tell me you destroyed the note,” Hubert says.

“I am offended you have to ask. I made a small fire in the kitchen hearth under the guise of heating water for tea, and incinerated it.”

Hubert raises one eyebrow. “Well done. We’ll make a dangerous spy out of you yet.”

Ferdinand ducks his head toward Hubert’s. “And I’ll make a passable lover out of you.”

Hubert stiffens at Ferdinand’s side, and now it’s Ferdinand’s turn to flush deeply.

“Erm. Suitor, I meant. Lover, suitor—”

“In character,” Hubert chides him under his breath, and Ferdinand shuts up, though he can’t do anything about the heat on his face. “So, darling,” Hubert says, considerably louder. “Where are you whisking me off to now?”

“Well, it would seem the most expedient way to see the many sights of Derdriu is by water.” And also the hardest way to be overheard by their tails. “How about a romantic gondola ride?”

“Whatever your heart desires, my dear.”

The reach the base of the hill, and Ferdinand releases Hubert’s waist, grasping his hand instead to tug him toward the canal’s edge. A small wooden dock extends onto the wide canal, and a few gondoliers lounge there, smoking pipes and laughing amongst themselves. One of them, a squat, muscular man, looks up at Ferdinand’s approach.

“Hello, there! We are looking to hire your fine services for a leisurely tour of the aquatic city!” Ferdinand announces, striding out onto the dock. “I am not sure how these kinds of arrangements are typically made—”

“You Adrestian?” the man sneers. “You sound like you’ve got a stick up your ass.”

Ferdinand’s eyelids flutter as he takes a step back. “We are merely tourists—”

“We don’t serve imperial scum here. Ain’t gonna bend a knee to your bitch emperor, neither—”

“Now, now. We have left the ruins of the old empire far behind us—as have many in this city, I am sure. And I imagine our gold spends much the same?” Ferdinand asks.

A burly woman steps forward, teeth bared in a rough smile. “I’ll take your gold if he won’t.” With a spit over her shoulder, she adds, “Can’t blame you for runnin’ from those heathens.”

Ferdinand can practically feel the indignation and menace radiating off of Hubert behind him, so he shoves a hefty fistful of coins in her hand and hurries them both onto the woman’s narrow, high-hulled gondola. “Saints bless you, ma’am.”

“Anywhere special you want to go?”

“The grand tour, please,” Ferdinand says. “At least an hour’s worth.”

She smirks knowingly. “The lovebird special. You got it, gents.”

Hubert takes Ferdinand’s hand to stabilize himself, and climbs in beside him with practiced ease—more than Ferdinand was expecting. “You distrust horses, but not boats?” he asks.

“They typically don’t have teeth.”

Ferdinand smirks at that, then settles in on the back of the gondola, heaped high with cushions to allow them to observe the ride from a reclining position. Ferdinand looks up at the teal sky, its roughspun silk threaded with thin white clouds, and takes a deep breath of the crisp, clean air. After scanning the nearby quays, Hubert settles in beside him, their arms pressing together. With a grunt, the woman shoves them off the dock, and begins to pole them into the boat traffic on the canal.

Carefully, Hubert turns toward him, and at this angle, the bangs fall back from his face to reveal his other eye more clearly. He is—dare Ferdinand think it?—smiling in full now, gaze softened as he relaxes into the cushions.

“This climate suits you,” Hubert says, and his fingers stretch out—nervous—then brush a lock out of Ferdinand’s eyes. “You were made to be graced by sunlight.”

Ferdinand tenses as if punched. They’re still in character, then. “That was better, at least,” he whispers.

Hubert’s smile goes crooked, unguarded, and oh, if _that_ wasn’t a thing Ferdinand would rather not know he was capable of. His fingers brush the lock back and linger at Ferdinand’s cheek; curl possessively there. “I am trying.”

Ferdinand reaches out as well; rests his palm on the curve of Hubert’s neck. It’s lean, but surprisingly strong, tendons thin yet dense, and his fingertips nestle in the underside of Hubert’s jaw.

Twelve days ago, he was nearly jumping out of his skin at the brush of gloved hands together, and now—now they can be as close as this, bare skin, faces close enough to feel each soft exhale of Hubert’s like its own phantom kiss. Is he building up an immunity to Hubert? He’d like to think so. It would make everything so much easier.

What he fears is far more terrifying—that the only thing he’s immune to now is reality’s cold, intrusive claws.

“There.” Hubert’s gaze skids somewhere above him. “We’re still being watched, but the canals are aiding us.”

Ferdinand lets out his breath. “Thank the Goddess. Now, let us sort out our strategy—”

“I am sorry for—in the questioning room—”

Ferdinand stops; blinks. “Pardon?”

Hubert grunts dismissively. “Later. Yes—strategy—you’re right. You are meeting with Gloucester tomorrow?”

“Yes, but I do not think it is intended to be in an official capacity—”

“But he will still be questioning you, taking a note of your responses,” Hubert says.

“I know that! Please—I can handle Lorenz. I am more concerned about just what you wish us to willingly tell them about the Empire.”

Hubert’s thumb strokes against his cheek, and Ferdinand nearly startles; he’d almost forgotten it was there. “Careful. You’re looking displeased.”

Ferdinand bats his eyelashes and scoots closer to Hubert; his fingers slide further  
around the back of his neck. “Better?”

Hubert’s mouth opens, but he merely nods.

The gondola turns swiftly. They’ve poled out into a wider throughway now, the air briny and ripe as seagulls caw overhead. The buildings lining either side of the wide canal are red, blue, pink, gold, still bright despite decades of battering by the sun. The city both shows its age and yet stands proud and defiant against the craggy terrain, the encroaching sea, and again, Ferdinand feels a strange twinge of guilt.

“You’d drawn up invasion plans before,” Hubert says. “When we’d initially planned a winter campaign. Do you remember the details of those plans?”

Ferdinand huffs. “I remember _all_ my plans, thank you very much. We were going to blockade the southern valley pass into Derdriu and count on the winter sea to pin them in to the north—”

“—My point is, you could outline that scrapped plan in detail for them, yes? As though it were the most current one?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course I could.”

“Excellent.” Hubert’s fingers resume brushing against his temple, and perhaps it isn’t what he intends, but it assuages Ferdinand all the same, tamping down his hesitations. This is only a game of subterfuge, after all. It isn’t as if they’re carrying out a direct attack tomorrow, or anything.

Then he recalls the inordinate amount of poisons and potions Hubert dragged along with them, and wonders whether Hubert’s mission might be somewhat different from his own.

Best not to dwell on that, either.

“How many now?” Ferdinand asks softly.

Hubert blinks. “Two along the canals. A boat slightly ahead of us, to the right.”

“I feel so terribly important.”

Clearing his throat, Ferdinand watches the uneven tiled rooftops swirl past as they steer down another narrow tributary, losing himself in Hubert’s soothing touch. Nothing but the shush of water against the boat as the gondolier poles them along, and the gentle breeze. And maybe—maybe—this is enough, for now. He doesn’t need grand romance, the rush of battle and the all-consuming occupation of warfare and empire-building. He doesn’t need vast declarations of love. He and Hubert are—partners, now, professionals, and that is its own reward; accomplices in reforging the new Adrestia and Fódlan Edelgard envisioned for them all.

Any void in his heart is the price of progress. The cost of greatness. And all he has ever wanted—is to be great.

All he’s ever wanted . . .

“I . . . I was going to apologize,” Hubert says, carefully reeling his attention back. “For—earlier. In the questioning room.”

Ferdinand’s mouth is dry, but he keeps his expression light. “I do not know what you mean.”

“I didn’t intend to—ah, to startle you, to—k-kiss you without your permission.”

Hubert squeezes his eyes shut; when they reopen, they are wide, a startling celadon. Goddess. Has Ferdinand really not seen both his eyes at once before? At least, not since that time best forgotten, brushing shaggy bangs from his face so he could kiss both of those sharp cheeks. They are too much—too intense and too soft at the same time, impossible to look away from.

“I only meant to—I’m not sure. Kiss your forehead, I suppose. But in any case . . . I am sorry if I caught you off-guard.”

“Hubert.” Ferdinand dons his boldest grin, because he’ll be damned if Hubert thinks he’s going to best him at this. “I already gave you permission. What you ought to apologize for is that ridiculous face you made afterward, like a—a cornered possum.”

The tips of his fingers press firmer into Ferdinand’s scalp. “I did _not_ look like a possum!”

“You did! You’re doing it now, in fact. Are we being watched still?”

“It’s best to assume the answer is always yes—”

“Because, honestly, Hubert, your doting expressions leave a lot to be desired. If you cannot so much as give me a chaste peck without recoiling in terror—”

“I did not _recoil_!” he sputters. “If anything, you were the one who recoiled—”

“Nonsense. I could kiss you all day, if required.” Ferdinand narrows his eyes, smirking. “For all your talk about being the accomplished operative, it would seem you are the delicate one—”

“I am not _delicate_,” Hubert growls, and crushes his mouth down onto Ferdinand’s.

Ferdinand gasps against his lips, but recovers quickly, and grasps at Hubert’s hair with the fingers already twined around his head. If this is to be yet another act, then Ferdinand intends to steal the show. Hubert’s mouth is closed, but Ferdinand teases his thumb against the hinge of Hubert’s jaw, and works it open; shivers as Hubert’s chest rumbles with a moan.

The boat sways as Ferdinand draws him closer. He licks into Hubert’s mouth, rougher than necessary, but he is, after all, proving a point. Hubert draws a sharp inhale, so Ferdinand presses firmer, tongue sweeping against Hubert’s, tugging at it, pulling it into his own mouth. Possessive. Victorious.

Hubert sighs, a sweet sound of surrender, and Ferdinand’s eyes flutter open, only to find that pale green gaze staring back at him, rounded as if in wonderment—and Ferdinand has to squeeze his eyes closed again—he won’t let that look get its hooks in him—

But then Hubert is sucking at his lower lip, and releases him with a soft breath, pressing their foreheads together as he cradles Ferdinand’s cheek.

Ferdinand fights to slow his breaths, but he feels like a thundercloud, dark and electrified. He can’t open his eyes, can’t see that look again, or he’ll surrender to the storm.

“Was . . .” Hubert’s breath puffs against his mouth, and at least he seems to be panting, too. “Was that convincing enough?”

Ferdinand opens his eyes finally, but makes himself look beyond Hubert, to the arch of the bridge they’re passing under instead. _Show me again,_ he wants to say. _Convince _me. Because at least this time, he _is_ Hubert’s duty . . .

But he can’t afford to think that way.

“Do not ask me,” he says instead, and smiles, even though it stings. “Ask our watchers.”

Hubert ducks his head, teeth digging into his lower lip, and oh, Ferdinand did not need to see how rosy that lip is; he does not need to wonder how much more he can do to that lip in the future. So Ferdinand releases his grip on Hubert’s hair and rolls onto his back instead to stare up at the sky, its edges pinkening with the same hue of Hubert’s mouth as the sun dips toward the sea.

Hubert turns from him as well, and from the corner of his eyes, Ferdinand sees the familiar scowl return. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@Bohemienne6](http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[Ferdinand's Insults for Hubert, Catalogued (ft. Lorenz and Hilda)](https://twitter.com/DecasArt/status/1189344162010808320) by @DecasArt**
> 
> Updates will be slightly slower for the next few weeks while I work on projects for [Ferdibert Week](http://twitter.com/ferdibertweek) and various holiday gift exchanges. But Ferdibert Week is coming! And I'll have something new for every day~

He has kissed Ferdinand twice in his life now, and both times, stopping was the most painful thing he’s ever done. Which is precisely why Hubert was right to stop—why he cannot let himself become addicted to this, complacent in it—but it makes it no easier; it makes it hurt no less.

As the gondola docks outside the Almyran bazaar, and Ferdinand helps him step back onto land, the sunset burnishing his copper hair to a saintly shine—it makes it no easier.

As they stroll arm in arm through the bazaar, Ferdinand chattering effortlessly with merchants and street performers and little children who want to touch his curls—it is no easier.

When they duck into an Almyran coffeehouse draped with brilliant scarves and settle side by side on floor pillows, the sharp scents of anise and turmeric and cardamom washing over them—it is no easier.

All he wants is to sweep Ferdinand’s hair away from his neck and taste his soft skin. He wants to hold onto that sharp chin like a grounding rod as he kisses him—

As he coaxes those earnest cries from sweet lips with his mouth and his teeth and his tongue—

With his fingers lost in bright hair and his thoughts quieted down—

The way every weight and fear and memory seems to vanish when Ferdinand is near, every echo of his father and the old empire—every nightmare he’s ever had of his lady’s demise, every conviction he holds that if he is distracted for even a moment, it will all fall apart—

It all empties from his mind, leaving nothing but sunlight and joy and an infectious laugh that makes him dizzy. He’s left with nothing but that smile carved into his thoughts by a cruel torturer’s hand. He is left with—

Nothing he can ever have.

Because looking away, looking to that sun for even a moment, can only damn them all.

“What is on your mind?” Ferdinand asks, nudging Hubert’s shoulder with his own.

_How much I want you,_ he thinks.

_How much I don’t dare have you._

He smiles and nudges Ferdinand right back. “Why do you ask?”

“You looked far away.” Ferdinand’s fingertips rest against his cheek as those wide eyes assess him. Hubert feels very small before them; he feels exposed, vivisected, all his sins and his blackened sinew on display. “Come back to me, love.”

If he were Ferdinand’s, he would kiss him now. (He’d already be kissing him.) He would mark him so the world could see how fortunate he was—how worthy—how enamored he was with this gilded creature. But he is none of those things, and Ferdinand would never want him even if he were.

He has well and truly seen to that—perhaps his only saving grace.

“I’m here,” Hubert says, and clasps his hand atop Ferdinand’s instead. A safe motion. He looks Ferdinand in the eye. “I’m yours.”

Ferdinand bites his lower lip—discomfited, perhaps. He hasn’t spotted any of their tails inside the coffeehouse, and maybe Ferdinand knows this, too—that there’s probably no need to keep up their act. But Hubert’s starting to forget which of his selves is pretending, and which one’s telling the truth.

Flames. He needs to get out of here. He needs some air. He needs to see his emperor, to lose himself in his endless paperwork and plans, anything to put his mind off this constant, throbbing wound—

But then the server comes with their spiced coffee and a tray of bulghur wheat flecked with pomegranate seeds, pine nuts, herbs. And after five days without coffee, even he can be bribed against his own interests from time to time.

“Lorenz tells me it’s an Almyran delicacy,” Ferdinand explains, picking up the petite porcelain cup and waving the aroma toward his nose. “I—I thought you might like it.”

Hubert picks up his own cup and swirls it. A very finely grained roast, dense with spices that cling to the cup’s walls. “But you hate coffee,” Hubert says.

“I’ve grown fond of the smell.” He glances at Hubert before hurriedly looking away. “I may even be acquiring a taste for it.”

And, oh, how Hubert yearns to give him a taste, to contrive another ridiculous reason to kiss him again, lick every last spiced drop from his mouth and more besides—

But he only smirks, and clinks his cup to Ferdinand’s. “To our new, fearless life.”

Ferdinand mumbles agreement, but his smile fades somewhat.

Hubert takes a sip, and doesn’t bother to conceal the moan the rich, densely spiced drink pulls out of him. Even if he hadn’t been deprived of his caffeine of choice for several days, it’s incredible. He opens his eyes to find Ferdinand watching him with amber eyes sparkling, amused.

“What?” Hubert feels his face flush. “It’s exceptional.”

“I am pleased you like it.”

Hubert leans forward without thinking; works one hand, possessive, against Ferdinand’s bared neck and shoulder, thumb stroking against his exposed collarbone in that wonderfully low-cut shirt he’d picked out. What would it cost him, to leave bitter coffee-flecked trails down his throat and chest? What would it cost him to indulge even once more—

Thankfully, it’s Ferdinand who turns away this time, expression long. And it’s exactly the reminder Hubert needs.

Even if he were free to indulge in such an unbearable distraction—which he cannot be, not when there is a righteous war to wage, monsters waiting in darkness, and an endless onslaught of threats he must carefully manage and prune—

Even if he were free to fall hopelessly in love with Ferdinand and lose himself in him, never coming up for air—

Ferdinand could never love him back. He’s seen quite thoroughly to that.

* * *

They finish their coffee and their meal, seasoning the evening with their usual banter, then wander through the bazaar one last time in the ink of night, dangling brass lanterns throwing light in reds and blues and golds all around them. They buy some nourishments for the villa and a bottle of dry Almyran wine; a bag of finely ground coffee; a fruity tisane for Ferdinand that smells like sugar summer pies and the coy way Ferdinand looks at him sometimes when they’d share tea on the old monastery grounds, bright and effervescent. They actually watch the sights on the gondola ride back to their neighborhood, and Ferdinand sings some dreadful operetta song about Derdrian pirates as they put away their purchases in the pantry and Hubert pours them each a glass of the wine.

Without words, without even meaning to, they find themselves on the porch of the villa, looking into the cool night at the gardens before them.

“It’s lovely here,” Ferdinand says, after a few minutes’ silence. “Peaceful.”

_It won’t be for long,_ Hubert wants to say, but Ferdinand looks too happy to ruin the mood. Besides, there are ears everywhere. From having to pretend in deeds to having to pretend now in words—it’s disorienting. Part of him wonders if it would be easier to pretend all the time.

He needs _some_thing, after all. An occupation. His hands have been so still today; his schedule a yawning field, threatening to strangle him with its vastness. He turns the wine glass in his hand watches the legs run down the sides.

“Tell me more about this horse farm idea of yours,” he says instead.

“What? Oh.” Ferdinand’s face flushes scarlet; he flops over onto his back on the porch. “A silly idea, honestly. I have several of those for what comes next for us.”

It’s the _what comes next for us_ that he cuts himself on, but Hubert can’t react to that. “Well, we have all the time in the world now that we’re free, love. Why don’t you indulge me?”

The tips of Ferdinand’s ears darken, just begging to be kissed. “If you promise not to laugh.”

Hubert stretches out one hand; brushes his fingers against the pool of auburn hair that halos beneath Ferdinand. “I would never, darling.”

Ferdinand makes a face at him, but there’s no heat behind it. Ferdinand sits back up just long enough to drain his generously poured wine glass, then lies back down with his head on Hubert’s lap and closes his eyes.

Oh. Well. He supposes this is another of Ferdinand’s punishments. Hubert suppresses a twitch in the side of his face. No use cursing him, he supposes; the only thing he can do is up the stakes in return. So he tangles one hand in long hair, and the other—he presses to that open V of Ferdinand’s blouse, his cold fingers resting against hot skin.

Ferdinand shivers, but holds his ground. “Horse farm. Yes.” He clears his throat. “There are a great many older warhorses who suffer unpleasant fates once they are too old for service. I would like to adopt them for my own and help them live out the rest of their days as pleasantly as possible.”

Hubert’s thumb is stroking against Ferdinand’s sternum, his thumping heart. He’d never understood, before, how that heart could be so vast—he’d assumed it was all an act. An arrogant front. But he’s long since learned how wrong he was.

“And—” Ferdinand’s eyes flutter briefly, but then he turns his head to one side, away from Hubert’s body. “And orphans of war, too. If I—if we—if we decided we wished to have children, we could do far worse than giving new life to those who have lost—”

Hubert’s fingertips dig into Ferdinand’s chest of their own accord; he forces himself to relax them. “Is that what you wish, Ferdie?”

Ferdinand nods; when he opens his eyes, they’re shining. “It is. But, of course, if you do not—”

“Shh.” He raises his hand up Ferdinand’s neck to his cheek, and wipes away a single tear there. And because it costs him nothing to make promises like this, when it’s only just pretend—“Whatever your heart desires, Ferdie, you shall have.”

Ferdinand turns back toward him, and Hubert makes an effort to keep his thighs from tensing. “But what about what you want, darling?”

He suspects _that_ is a question Ferdinand doesn’t want answered. He certainly didn’t care for the answer before. Hubert’s heart is ratcheted high in his throat, choking him as he tries to think of a compelling lie—

But he can’t bring himself to do it.

“All I have ever wanted,” he says, “is to serve.”

Ferdinand’s eyes close again, and he sighs.

“—But I—I will gladly devote myself to serving you.”

And can it be the truth, if he wants it to be badly enough? Can it be close enough to pretend?

Can he carve space enough in his heart that Ferdinand never feels lesser, that Hubert never has to choose between his emperor and his love? But—but war means they’ll always be confronted with such choices. He cannot afford to stretch himself so thin.

And Ferdinand deserves to be someone’s everything.

“I . . . I think I am ready for bed now,” Ferdinand says, sitting back up and grabbing his empty wine glass. “It has been a long day.”

“As you wish, my love.” The words sound hollow even to Hubert’s ears. If he were his own operative, he’d be scolding himself most severely.

Ferdinand kneels down before him, eyes still glassy, though his smile is strong. “You’ll join me, yes?”

Hubert coughs. He leans forward, pressing his lips up to Ferdinand’s ear. “I—I can sleep downstairs. I don’t mean to crowd you—”

Ferdinand makes a disgusted noise in his throat and speaks in a normal tone, sure to reach the eavesdropping sigils. “Come, now, our first night together in _our new life_ . . .”

Hubert stifles a groan. He has a point, of course. So he allows himself to be dragged to his feet, though he makes a point of bringing their glasses inside, because let him never be called negligent or slovenly. And then Ferdinand leads him upstairs, both of them ghastly silent.

Void’s sake. He is _not_ prepared for the mechanics of _any_ of this. At least at the inn, they weren’t being eavesdropped on—

Once they’re in the gargantuan cathedral of the bedroom, Ferdinand issues him a glare that very clearly implores him to turn around, so he does so. Hastily strips down to his smallclothes. Hangs up his blouse and breeches in his wardrobe. All but dives under the covers and clamps his hands over his eyes.

“Feeling shy, are we?” Ferdinand coos, the bed dipping as he pounces onto it. Then he’s prying Hubert’s hands away from his face. “There’s no need to hide that lovely face.”

And the last thing Hubert needs is to hear those words that have haunted his most agonizing moments in solitude with nothing but the company of his own hands over the past five years. Ferdinand, calling him _lovely_—at his gangliest, his most awkward, when he let everything fall to the wayside except for his lady’s machinations—

“Well.” He swallows. “It is worth it, to witness you in all your divine glory.”

Ferdinand just rolls his eyes at that, and flops down beside him on the pillows. Hubert carefully lets out his breath and sinks down, as well. He darts one hand out to extinguish the kerosene lamp on his bedside, then turns toward Ferdinand, watching him in the moonlight:

“Sleep well, my love.”

Ferdinand rolls toward him, as well, and graces those lithe fingers against his cheek once again. “And you.”

Hubert scrunches his eyes closed, and to the sound of Ferdinand’s breathing and the distant lap of waves, he falls into a shallow sleep.

* * *

There is a weight upon him, in the darkness. Flattening him into the mattress—his thighs, his torso, his throat. Lips bear down on his shoulder, chased by teeth.

A waterfall of hair surrounds him—a confessional curtain drawn tight around his face. He can’t breathe, but he doesn’t need to—all he needs is to lace his fingers in another’s hand, gasp and surrender as sturdy hips rock against his own, as his neck is devoured, as another hand pins his wrist down and a fine mesh of copper hair shrouds his face.

It’s more than he can bear. He is not equipped to resist such an onslaught of fine freckled flesh, loving ministrations, a heart big enough he could get lost inside it. He is not at all prepared to endure such granite thighs pinning him down and teeth tearing him apart and nails raking at his very soul—

* * *

Hubert awakens alone, weary still, chest heaving and smallclothes unpleasantly damp as the harsh Derdriu sun casts its judging eye on him. He groans as he rolls over to one side, but finds Ferdinand’s half of the bed empty.

Flames. The sun has easily been up for an hour or more. He always rises at the first of day, ready to tackle any and every matter the Empire might possibly need intended to. And now—

And now he is not even sure if that—what_ever_ it was last night—was his dreams or reality.

He pulls himself upright and touches his neck. Hurries over to the standing mirror to examine himself. There is a faint streak of red on his neck, but it could just be a scratch. He feels certain that anything like those teeth he remembered would leave considerably more of a mark.

_Idiot._ Even his own subconscious won’t let him rest. He strips off his small clothes with a sigh. As usual, he’s made some kind of mess. He just doesn’t know yet what kind. He heads for the baths, but then spots the note on top of the vanity.

_Taking Marcus out for a ride. I’ll see you soon, love._

_Ferdinand_

Hubert starts to crumple the note, but leaves it. Nothing incriminating there, either. Right now, it feels like Ferdinand is proving a more consummate operator than himself.

After he washes up, Hubert heads to the kitchens and loses himself in breakfast preparations. The bread they bought at the Almyran market toasts nicely with olive oil, and he easily whips the fresh duck eggs into a fluffy omelet that he adorns with soft cheese and za’atar spices from the market, as well. He keeps the water kettle heated after he’s poured some into the coffee press for himself, and has just sat down to sort out his plans for the day—because he desperately needs some kind of plan—when the front door clangs open and Ferdinand tromps inside in heavy riding boots.

“Well! Something smells heavenly.”

Hubert smiles to himself as he pours a cup of tea to sleep for Ferdinand. “I thought you might like some nourishment after your ride, darling.”

“Much as I would, I am sorry to say that you needn’t have bothered. I will be having a late breakfast with Lorenz, remember?”

There is a tinny thud in Hubert’s chest. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Ferdinand frowns, and reaches for one of the toasted slices of bread. “Although, I _am_ famished.”

Hubert hides his smile behind his cup of coffee. Ferdinand is rosy-cheeked, his hair mussed and wild from the wind, and his low-cut shirt reveals a healthy glow already settling on his skin. “And how was your ride?”

“Splendid. Though I think it may take a while for the horses to adjust to these hilly streets. I can already tell Avané will need her shoes changed thanks to these dreadful cobblestones.”

“You rode them both?”

Ferdinand shrugs. “They both need their exercise.”

Hubert’s jaw twitches. “I suppose I could . . . join you, if you liked. Help share the burden?”

“It is hardly a burden to me!” Ferdinand takes a sip of tea, and smiles at him in a way that tightens a knot in Hubert’s belly. “But . . . I would not mind the company.”

Hubert looks away at that, face heating, and Ferdinand drinks his tea in silence, still standing at the table. “Say, darling . . .” Hubert ventures, his tone low. “About last night . . .” He swallows and idly touches his neck. “Did we, ah . . .”

He can feel Ferdinand’s glare boring through him before he even turns back. “I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about.”

Hubert coughs. “Never mind.”

Ferdinand’s head tilts, eyebrows raised, questioning, and Hubert wonders how quickly he could draw a sigil to Warp himself to the other side of the continent right now. Of course nothing happened. And nothing _will_ happen, because there is no need for it; because it would be a cruelty too far for them both. He sees that reflected in Ferdinand’s glare—the barely suppressed contempt, the wounded look that he would even _suggest_ such a thing—

Ferdinand stops chewing the toast he’d been working on, and set it back on the plate with his untouched eggs. “Well. I thank you for the breakfast.” He draws himself upright, all traces of his smile gone. “But I know you’re only doing your duty.”

* * *

Once Ferdinand departs, Hubert sets out into Derdriu in a positively venomous mood. As if he should give a damn what Ferdinand thinks of him and his priorities! A man is nothing without his honor and his duty, and someone who used to prattle on and on about his nobility and virtue, of _all_ people, should respect that. It is hardly becoming for him to throw it in Hubert’s face.

So it’s just as well he’s restraining himself now. He’d let his control slip in the days since they left the old monastery; he’d lost sight of their true purpose here. And for what? The ephemeral frisson of pleasure he found in tongues tangled together, in warmth searing against his cool skin? In soft eyes and softer dreams about horses and orphans and—Void’s sake, he can’t even contemplate it. It’s all so absurd.

His control has slackened, but he will secure it. When and if he must kiss Ferdinand, look at him, touch him, whisper nonsense in his ear—it will all be another step in their mission, and he will not even _dare_ to imagine it as anything more.

He is unbreakable. The Empire’s finest soldiers could scarcely break him when he was less than half his current age, trying to protect his lady. He certainly will not be broken by some dandy who takes hour-long baths and kisses like he hasn’t any other care in the world.

Hubert hops aboard a street trolley pulled by a team of hacks along the main avenue and settles in on a canalside bench. He’s dressed to blend in with the Derdrian style, and he’s even tamed his bangs back from his face to make himself less recognizable. He harbors no illusions he can shake his tails, but he’d rather avoid any more confrontations like the gondolier who immediately pinned them as Adrestians. His spies have sent him word of more than enough unflattering satirical pamphlets across Leciester Alliance and Faerghan lands that depict him as a rabid dog on his lady’s leash. Anonymity is never a guarantee.

As the trolley rolls along, he watches the canals open up to reveal the Duke’s Palace, that shimmering island of rococo marble and stucco rising from the waters. To anyone else, it likely appears like an untouchable haven. But to Hubert, its potential lies in how quickly such a refuge can become a cage.

The horses trudge along, and his gaze turns toward the flow of the tributaries swirling around the palace. Piping set in the Palace’s base draws the waters up into the compound.

Much as he’d hoped.

Now, he needs only to secure a visit to the Palace itself so he can assess its defenses.

* * *

“I’m so dreadfully sorry again to keep you waiting, Ferdie dearest. All these meetings, and no one can ever keep to their schedule . . .”

Ferdinand raises his glass of sparkling wine dotted with sliced fruit, and clinks it softly to Lorenz’s. “War preparations? I do not miss that one bit.”

“Well, naturally, I can’t answer that.” Lorenz smirks over the lip of his glass. “But suffice to say, it does drag on and on these days.”

“Undoubtedly.” Ferdinand leans back and gazes out at the ocean view from their balcony off Lorenz’s rooms in the Duke’s Palace. Stucco buildings jutting from an azure sea that cuts past them to stretch out, endless. Freeing. A little overwhelming in its freedom, its emptiness.

It feels strange to be idle. But, of course, Ferdinand von Aegir is never _truly_ at rest.

“I remember,” Ferdinand says casually, “how our generals would debate for hours over the best course of action, only to end up back at the plan I had proposed in the first damned place. If only they had listened!”

“Goddess. You’re telling me.” Lorenz takes another sip. “And it’s not like it’s some great secret that Adrestia’s naval forces are decidedly lacking on the northern sea. I keep telling them—Well. In any case, you understand.”

Ferdinand smiles, and files that tidbit away with only the smallest twinge of guilt. “Perfectly, my good man.”

* * *

Hubert exits the trolley when it reaches the Plaza of Starlight, the first major hub away from their villa. He thinks he detects two tails as he meanders along the square, dodging pigeons, schoolchildren, sailors, and more. Possibly a third. He knows precisely where he’s headed, but he must look as if he doesn’t, so he pauses to admire each of the elaborate carved buildings on the plaza in turn. A chapel to Saint Cethleann leans against an Almyran temple, hemmed in by a trade house. Nothing like the old Adrestia and its solemn fealty to the Church of Seiros above all things.

Perhaps Her Majesty has considerably less work to do to tear the old guard down, once they’ve claimed the Alliance territories for their own.

Finally he meanders down a side street; pauses at a bakery to browse the display case. He’s never had a sweet tooth himself, but he does recall Ferdinand rhapsodizing about some kind of delicate cookie made from almond flour that he ate once, a Derdrian specialty—two shell-like halves sandwiching a softer icing center. Sure enough, there’s a tray of them, labeled with flavors ranging from lavender to raspberry, and without even thinking, he buys one of each—a dozen in all.

A convenient cover, he assures himself—an excuse for why he’s come this way. He tucks the box of treats under one arm and wanders back onto the street. Now he can finally head to his true destination: the metalworking shop another block down.

* * *

“And what about this gentleman caller of yours?” Ferdinand asks, after they’ve demolished their breakfast crepes and are working on their third pitcher of sparkling wine and fruit. “Any further luck sorting that out?”

“Goddess. You do know how to cut to the quick.” Lorenz covers one side of his face with his palm. “Let’s just say that he is cunning and ruthless, and while I admire that in him, it does make it difficult for one to know where they stand.”

“Hrm. I can empathize.” Ferdinand looks up quickly. “Not—at present moment, of course—but . . . in the past.”

Lorenz raises one eyebrow. “Yes, I do imagine you know something of that.”

“Well, how does he show his affection for you? Does he go out of his way to brush his hand against yours in public, anything like that?”

“I—suppose so, yes. But it could be accidental, after all.”

Ferdinand hums his agreement.

“But,” Lorenz says, expression lifting, “he does a great many things behind the scenes for me. Little acts, but ones that let me know I was in his thoughts nonetheless. At least . . . that’s how I choose to interpret them.”

The wine suddenly tastes too sweet when Ferdinand next sips it, and he suppresses the pucker on his face. “Oh? How do you mean?”

“Just little things, I suppose. Always seeing to it that my armor is clean when I head out on a tour of duty in the countryside, for example. A little snack of Almyran candies or sweetcakes in my bags. The fresh scent of roses in my room.” Lorenz tosses his hair over his shoulder. “Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I can’t imagine he does that for just anyone.”

Ferdinand stares down into his glass as the unbearable sweetness coating his tongue turns bitter. “No, I suppose he does not.”

* * *

Hubert enters the metalworker’s atelier with only a touch of nerves. He’d been struggling to concoct a plausible reason to come here, but in this, too, Ferdinand has given him an unknowing gift. He sets the box of confections down on the counter, positioning an unseen scrap of paper just beneath them, and waits for the proprietor to approach.

As he waits, his gaze falls on a tray of roughly worked jewelry on display. The metal is hammered and twisted in an unusual style, far from the precise, elegant forms usually seen in Adrestian fashion. But his gaze is tugged by a pair of rough gold earrings that dangle with teardrop-shaped backings, set with a sunrise of garnet surrounded by slender citrine and topaz rounds. His breath catches, and he reaches out, curious to feel the weight of them—

“Can I help you, sir?”

Hubert straightens up as the proprietor approaches, and she flinches for only a moment at the sight of him. Collect herself and nods, then reaches the desk.

Hubert smiles. “Yes. In fact, I was hoping to inquire about ordering a new set of horseshoes.”

“Well, I am no farrier, but I work with one I would be happy to send around for a fitting.” As she talks, her fingers skim over the pocket of her leather apron, unearthing a tightly folded scrap of parchment there. “Just give me your address, and I’ll make the arrangements.”

Hubert does so, and in the course of their exchange, it would take a pair of eyes far closer than any that might be watching to witness the swap of the paper beneath his box for the paper in her hand. Business concluded, he collects his pastries and readies to leave—

“Actually . . .” He hesitates by the tray of jewelry and gestures to the earrings he’d spotted earlier, though he does not touch them. “How much for those?”

* * *

When he returns to the village, he finds it already occupied by what sounds like quite the enthusiastic dinner party for midafternoon. When he enters, his gifts in hand, he finds Ferdinand, Lorenz Gloucester, Lysithea von Ordelia, and Ignatz Victor howling around the parlor table, a deck of cards and multiple bottles of wine scattered amongst them.

“Oh,” Hubert says, “my apologies for interrupting.”

The laughter is smothered instantly. Ferdinand bounds up from his seat on the floor, though, and throws his arms around Hubert’s shoulders. “Welcome back, darling.”

This time, Hubert is better prepared for the kiss, but the swipe of tongue against his own punches the breath out of him all the same. He staggers back, and throws his free arm around Ferdinand’s waist for support, tasting sweet wine, sweeter lips on his own. When Ferdinand breaks the kiss, Hubert’s eyes lid and he whimpers—forces himself not to chase those lips back down.

“Well. I . . . missed you, too.”

Ferdinand smiles at him and ruffles his bangs. “Come join us! They’re teaching me how to play Brigand’s Bluff. I am deeply terrible at it,” Ferdinand adds.

Hubert glances at the three members of the Alliance, who are staring at him with a mixture of wariness and fear. “If I’d known we would have guests, I’d have bought more food.”

“Ooh,” Lysithea exclaims, “is that from the pastry shop off of the Plaza of Starlight? They have the best little cookies—”

Hubert takes the opportunity to disentangle himself from Ferdinand, and brings the box over to the parlor table and sets it down just on top of where he knows the listening sigil is positioned on the underside. “Indeed they are. I bought them for you, Ferdinand, but I am sure you don’t mind sharing with your . . . friends?”

There’s something odd in Ferdinand’s expression, but he nods, smiling. “By all means.”

“And do forgive us for intruding,” Lorenz says, not meeting Hubert’s eyes. “We were having such a lovely afternoon, and we decided the festivities should continue.”

As Lysithea dives into the box of pastries, Ferdinand comes beside Hubert and props his chin on Hubert’s shoulder. “And what about the other box?” he murmurs, breath warm against the small hairs at Hubert’s neck.

Hubert shivers; turns and drops a quick kiss to Ferdinand’s temple. “Later,” he whispers. Ferdinand raises one eyebrow, but then goes to aid his guests in demolishing the treats.

Hubert shouldn’t complain. He’s glad Ferdinand has something to occupy himself with. Hubert has a message from his spies to decode, after all, and after his work scouting the Duke’s Palace perimeter, quite a few preparations to make. But Ferdinand’s ease with the leaders of the Leicester Alliance is . . . concerning, to say the least. And he can think far clearer without Ferdinand’s presence.

He drums his fingers against the box at his side. It’s not too late to chuck it into the bloody sea.

“Oh,” Lorenz says, “but Ferdie, dear, you haven’t even told him the best part!”

Hubert blinks. “Which is?”

Ferdinand grins, a dangerous, mischievous grin that Hubert is quickly learning to fear. “We have been invited to the Duke’s Palace,” Ferdinand says, words rushing over themselves.

Hubert stands up straighter. Or maybe Ferdinand is—as ever—working his own strange magic to their advantage. “Splendid. What’s the occasion?”

Lorenz clasps his hands together. “Duke Riegan is hosting our annual spring masquerade!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** Hide your face so the world will never find you.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DENIAL & DECEPTION FANART!**
> 
> [The Gondola Ride (Ch 7)](https://twitter.com/loafeoil/status/1192822458379841539) by [@loafeoil](https://twitter.com/loafeoil)
> 
> ["I am not delicate." (Ch 7)](https://twitter.com/tytopls/status/1193072358849822726) by [@tytopls](https://twitter.com/tytopls)
> 
> [The Veranda (Ch 8)](https://twitter.com/qschadenfreude/status/1191435941568749573) by [@qschadenfreude](http://twitter.com/qschadenfreude)
> 
> I'm still crunching hard on [Ferdibert Week projects](http://twitter.com/ferdibertweek), so I appreciate the patience with these slower updates. December is going to be a bounty, promise!

“I must thank you again,” Ferdinand calls to the washroom, from where he’s seated at the bedroom’s vanity. “Avané was coping much better with the cobblestones this morning, don’t you think?”

“It’s all the same to me,” Hubert answers. Ferdinand can only see his shadow on the washroom wall through the open door, but he hears the gentleness in Hubert’s tone. “However . . . I’m glad you think it made a difference.”

Ferdinand smiles to himself as he concludes a quick trim of his brows, then brushes them back into place. He hadn’t expected Hubert to be awake and waiting for him this morning, hot beverages at the ready for their walk to the stables. He _really_ hadn’t expected the farrier who met them there, already concluding his replacement of Avané’s shoes. And then there was Hubert, actually eager and smiling as he trotted at Ferdinand’s side for a grand tour of the jetties and boulevards that webbed the easternmost hill of Derdriu—seeing that side of Hubert on display had been downright shocking.

But Hubert is proving to be full of surprises on their travels thus far. It leaves Ferdinand wondering just what he’ll do next.

And if Ferdinand is being deeply honest with himself, it leaves him wishing it wouldn’t end.

No use dwelling on that, though. He gives his wavy locks another fluff and adjusts his costume with a soft clank of metallic bangles. Tonight is Claude’s masquerade ball at the Duke’s Palace, an island citadel in the central harbor of Derdriu, and despite his reservations, there was only ever one costume choice for him. He swipes gold-flecked paint across each eyelid and examines himself in the vanity mirror, then fetches the pot of rosy lip tint; rubs the creamy substance onto his mouth. Satisfied, he reaches for the studded burgundy half-mask he plans to wear—

“Oh, Ferdie.”

Ferdie turns abruptly to find Hubert standing in the washroom doorway, and his breath stutters. Hubert has donned tight black leather breeches and boots to go with a fitted, jet-crusted black velvet jacket, its nap iridescent with deep hints of royal purples and blues. His hair is wavier and fluffier than usual—_softer,_ Ferdinand thinks, with a sudden urge to touch it—and a thin smear of teal underlines each of his eyes. In one hand, he clutches the feathered raven’s half-mask he means to wear for the ball.

For all the dark colors, he is . . . radiant. Alluring. And while Ferdinand has been impatiently anticipating tonight’s festivities ever since Lorenz mentioned it, a sudden, primal instinct whispers that Ferdinand should keep this Hubert all to himself. He wants to tangle himself in that darkness and never find his way out.

“Hubert.” Ferdinand tries and fails to moisten his parched mouth. “You look . . . magnificent.”

Hubert’s hands clench at his sides. Then he tosses his mask onto the dresser and picks up a slender box there instead. “Ferdie, I—”

He bites down on whatever more he was going to say, and crosses the bedroom in an elegant stride. He really should wear slim-cut breeches like those more often, Ferdinand concludes; his wiry legs are wasted in his usual jodhpurs. “Darling,” Hubert tries again. “I—I only thought you’d been joking about bringing—_that outfit_.”

Ferdinand smooths out the overlapping fabrics of his dancer’s costume: white and burgundy trimmed in brass accents. “It is a fine garment.”

“Yes, but you usually only wear it for battle.”

_Not only then,_ Ferdinand thinks, but he’d rather not remember that just now. He’s certain Hubert would prefer to forget as well.

Hubert stops before him, crushing his little box in his hands. “Darling, I. Um.” He looks down at the box. “I bought something for you.”

Ferdinand blinks. “But Hubert—is it not almost _your _birthd—”

“Hush, now,” Hubert says fondly. “Not for two more days. And you don’t need to buy me anything. My time with you . . . it is gift enough.”

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, and now it’s his hands that curl too tight. “By that metric . . . you need not have bought me anything, either.”

“I know.” Hubert conjures up a wavering smile like some kind of mirage. “But I wanted to.”

Ferdinand can’t think of anything clever to say to that, and the seeming earnestness in Hubert’s tone threatens to allow him to believe impossible things. So the sooner this conversation is over with, the better he will feel.

Hubert fiddles with the box’s lid, then holds it out instead. “Here.”

Ferdinand opens the lid, and stares at the earrings inside.

And stares some more.

The gold backing and gemstones in burgundy and orange are a perfect match to the dancer’s costume he currently wears. And, he supposes, to his hair and complexion, as well. Hubert clearly has developed an eye for jewelry in Edelgard’s service. Ferdinand’s fingers fumble over one of the earrings as he tries to pick it up. “How did you . . .”

“Oh.” Hubert frowns. “I only just realized—I don’t even know if your ears pierced.”

“—They are. Sometimes, with his outfit, I would wear . . .”

Hubert lets out a shaky breath. “Oh, good.” They look at each other for a moment, then Hubert holds out one hand. “May I . . . ?”

Ferdinand nods, speechless.

As Hubert tucks his hair back from his ear, Ferdinand feels the old, familiar rush of envy for Edelgard that used to be his constant companion—especially, sometimes, where Hubert was involved. She always had his duty, his loyalty, his service. And she always will be. He doesn’t know why he ever thought he could earn these things from Hubert, too—not when that very sense of duty and want for her dreams and goals are the things he admires about Hubert. And they precisely why Hubert’s allegiance can never be stretched.

But having Hubert dote on him like this, being first in Hubert’s thoughts and purpose, seeing all too closely what it means to belong to Hubert and have Hubert belong to him—however false and forced it is—

It’s almost more than he can bear.

Hubert slides the earrings into place, and rests his palms on Ferdinand’s shoulders, standing behind him. They study themselves in the vanity mirror, Hubert’s gaze no less searing for being softened by the mirror’s reflection. And Ferdinand hates most of all that he cannot seem to enjoy this moment without dwelling on the truth behind it. He wishes that he, too, could be better at pretending.

“They’re perfect,” he says. And it’s true. The gems draw out all the shimmering undertones of his hair and his costume. He hates how perfect they are. He hates feeling the ghost of how happy this all would make him, if only he didn’t know the truth.

If only he didn’t know that Hubert can never want him like he wants—everything else.

Hubert makes a strange noise then, and leans down to kiss Ferdinand’s temple. “You’re perfect,” he says weakly, but it’s probably too quiet for the sigils to capture.

Ferdinand closes his eyes and waits for the brush of sentimentality he feels to subside. Then he stands, breaking out of Hubert’s grasp. “Well! Shall we be on our way?”

There is a moment before Hubert answers while Ferdinand fumbles around to gather his other accessories. He starts to put out his arm, as though to offer it to Ferdinand, but Ferdinand doesn’t see the point, so instead he hurries out of the room.

* * *

Where the imperial palace in Adrestia is a stolid, uniform stretch of classical architecture, the Duke’s Palace is an ostentatious labyrinth of marble and granite, coiled up like a wyvern on its rocky outcrop in the harbor. A private boat ferries them to the island’s main dock, and Hubert ushers Ferdinand up the terraced gardens to the grand foyer. His gloved fingers trace a tiny circle at the small of Ferdinand’s back, only the black leather of the glove and thin crimson gauze separating him from Ferdinand’s dense muscle, and it is at once too familiar and wholly foreign, wholly tantalizing as though he has never felt any of this before.

Ferdinand throws him an uneasy smile as they stride toward the grand ballroom at the palace’s heart. Is he, too, recalling the last time he danced for Hubert in this costume? Because though it cannot possibly be the exact same one—Ferdinand’s shoulders and chest alone, these days, would likely split the seams—it’s all Hubert can see. With each chime of the metallic trim and flash of gemstones at Ferdinand’s ears, all he can hear are Ferdinand’s angry sobs.

With a rush of guilt, he pulls Ferdinand closer to his side, and kisses the tip of his ear, his half-mask bobbing as he does so. Ferdinand hums in response; glances up at him without a trace of bitterness or sorrow. Merely smiles.

The regret is Hubert’s alone, then, he supposes. And maybe—maybe, for tonight—he can let go of it.

Then they reach the ballroom, and the world erupts in a swirl of color and noise.

Masked dancers waltz across the vast dance floor in velvets and sparkles and satin, gowns billowing, suits sumptuous. It’s somehow even more extravagant than any ball he’s been forced to attend back in Enbarr, where Hubert would largely lurk in the shadows and keep a watchful eye on Edelgard and her friends. But there’s a strange looseness in his chest at the realization that he has no such obligation tonight—that he need only concern himself with the gorgeous man at his side.

But no—that isn’t true, either. Tonight they have more obligations than ever. They can only make the most cursory show of attending the ball before he needs to slink away to study the palace more closely—

“Hubert.” Ferdinand squeezes his hip. “I can practically _hear_ you panicking.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“If our last dance was an indication, you are perfectly . . . adequate at the waltz.” Ferdinand grins. “So do not fret.”

“Are you looking to dance now, then?” Hubert asks. Might as well get it over with—put in their appearance.

“Not just yet. Let us greet our friends!”

At that, he charges forward toward the tables of food and beverages, waving to someone dressed in a gown of robin’s egg blue, hair and mask styled like some sort of ocean wave. As Hubert chases after him, he realizes it’s Marianne von Edmund who Ferdinand’s approaching. Which would make the candy-pink faerie at her side—

“Hubie-Wubie! Now, that’s not fair. You’re supposed to wear a costume.”

“Hilarious. Lady Goneril.” Hubert manages a curt bow. “And who did you connive into designing yours for you?”

“I’ll have you know I made these accessories myself, you sleazy—”

“Be nice, Hilda.” Marianne shuffles forward, and lowers her ocean mask. “A raven, right?” she asks Hubert. “They’re very smart creatures. They know how to use all kinds of tools.” She tilts her head with a tremulous smile. “Social, too.”

“Well, that sounds like a crock of shit.” Hilda turns to Ferdinand. “Aww, that’s so cute! I remember now. You beat Raphael at the White Heron Cup!”

Ferdinand’s cheeks redden to match his mask. “He was a worthy opponent—”

“And _damn_. You weren’t kidding about that divine ass, were you, Hubie? You could uncork a champagne bottle with that—”

“_Hilda_,” Marianne hisses.

“D-divine . . . ?” Ferdinand stutters, and Hubert shrinks back, grateful for the mask to hide his cheeks.

“Just look at us. All reminiscing and shit. Just like old times, am I right? Gag me.” Hilda tosses back her punch.

“What is the matter with reminiscing?” Ferdinand asks.

“Because we’re supposed to just pretend you two are all chill now, while Adrestia’s creeping on our border? Please. How about you tell your old army pals to back up off my nuts, maybe, and then we can talk.”

She puts her empty glass on the nearest table and bustles off in a flutter of glittery tulle wings.

“I—I’m sorry,” Marianne says, turning back toward them. “We’ve all been a little on edge this past few months. What with—the empire pressing up against our borders—But I’m very happy you’re here.” She glances up at them. “It gives me hope that maybe all of us can work out our differences, in time.”

Ferdinand reaches for Hubert’s hand and squeezes it too tightly. “Yes, well. I do hope we can all find a measure of peace. And soon.”

Hubert bites back his instinctive retort, and lets go of Ferdinand’s hand. “Some refreshments, perhaps? Ferdie? Marianne?”

Marianne gestures to her own glass, but Ferdinand nods, and Hubert excuses himself to find the champagne.

He needs to focus. Damn Ferdinand and his bubbly optimism. It doesn’t matter how close they become with the unsuspecting members of the Leicester Alliance; they must, inevitably, betray them if they are to see Her Majesty’s work realized. Even if the Church of Seiros’s clutches are not nearly so tight on these lands as they were in Adrestia, as they still are in Faerghus—it is the only way to end the tyranny of crests.

He grabs two glasses and dodges around massive skirt trains and carnival performers who are weaving their way through the crowd. This candlelit evening, this masquerade—Ferdinand gilded and effervescent—it must all be a means to his ends. But as Ferdinand pauses mid-conversation to glance back at him, face glowing in the feeble bronze light from the chandeliers, smile so open it’s an embrace he longs to fall into—

He wishes it didn’t have to be.

He clamps down on that traitorous thought like crushing a spider. He will not let such ideas roam free.

But if he must pretend—

“Have I mentioned . . .” Hubert sidles up to Ferdinand and buries his mouth against his ear. “Just how delectable you look this evening? Because I truly cannot say it enough, my dear.”

Ferdinand trembles against him, and with Marianne watching them closely, Hubert kisses Ferdinand’s earlobe. Twitches at the curve of his earring with his teeth. Mask firmly in place on both of them, it is all too easy to claim it’s all for show.

“Darling.” Ferdinand turns toward him with a shy smile. “You are quite the richly dark vision yourself.”

Marianne coughs politely. “Well. I should, um, go find Hilda—”

“_There_ you are, Ferdie!”

And then Lysithea von Ordelia is pouncing on Ferdinand’s other side, ripping him out of Hubert’s grasp, and Hubert has never detested the entire von Ordelia lineage more. “Oh, my goddess. The dancer outfit. And with that mask! You’re too stinkin’ adorable.”

Lysithea’s own ensemble is some sort of fluffy swan-themed confection that flaps around her as she bounces on Ferdinand’s arm.

“Oh! Yours turned out wonderfully as well. Look, Hubert!” Ferdinand turns toward him, and his eyes are positively _sparkling_ through the eye holes of his mask. “I helped her pick out the accessories.”

And whatever this lump is in Hubert’s throat, he hates it with a passion. “You did magnificently.”

Ferdinand smile widens, and his lips part to say more—but then Lysithea is tugging at him again. “So are you gonna show off those champion dancer skills for me, or what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let me ask my—” Ferdinand looks back to him. “My . . . my Hubert.”

Hubert’s mouth opens, but he can’t find any words. He can’t find anything except the void opening inside him, echoing and vast.

_My Hubert._

And he can’t bear how fervently, how fiercely he wants it to be true.

He forces himself to breathe again and affects what he hopes is an easy smile. “Of course, darling. I have a feeling you’re going to be in high demand.” He leans in to kiss Ferdinand’s cheek. “Just promise you’ll save a dance for me.”

Ferdinand’s fingertips perch on his cheek for a second. “Always,” he says, his face wide open. Smiling with true ease.

And then he’s scampering off with Lysithea to the dance floor.

Marianne sighs somewhere behind Hubert, startling his attention back. “I hope this isn’t strange of me to say . . .”

Hubert draws his shoulders up, and he frowns.

“But I’m really glad you found someone.” Her smile could just as easily be a grimace. “I always felt a little sad for you at school. Following Edelgard around all the time, never taking time for yourself.”

“That was my choice. Not anyone’s orders—hers or anyone else’s.” Hubert bristles. “And don’t you dare give me that nonsense about being in love with her—”

“Oh, no, I never thought that.” She finishes her champagne and sets it aside. “She’s not the one you spent all your time arguing with, after all.”

Hubert bites the inside of his cheek. Even now, his instinct is to deny it. To deny _himself_. When all he can think of is effortless warmth and gentle hands, a shrewd mind and deep heart, and how much he wants to _belong _to them—

Fucking void, he needs to get back to Adrestia.

“A good thing we got that sorted out, then.” He finishes his glass as well, then holds out his hand. “Would you care to dance?”

* * *

The music, the champagne, the dancers all blur into a cocktail far stronger than its parts. Ferdinand loses track of Hubert for a minute, then spots him again, gently waltzing Marianne von Edmund as Ferdinand swings Lysithea out into a spin, then reels her back. It settles a strange feeling inside him, and not an unpleasant one. If it were jealousy, that’d be one thing. But this feels more like—pride? Relief, he decides. Relief that Hubert is finally relaxing into their roles. But pride, too—as if he wants to gesture across the dance floor and announce to everyone, _That one’s mine._

Ferdinand groans at himself, and Lysithea raises an eyebrow. “You okay, Ferdie?”

“Perfectly.” He sways from side to side. “Are we still set for the seventeenth?”

She giggles. “You bet. He’s gonna _love_ it, I promise.”

Ferdinand expects he’ll feel quite the opposite, but he’s having too much fun pushing Hubert beyond his comfortable little spider’s web. Even when it does occasionally blow back on him with more force than he was expecting.

Like goading him into that kiss on the gondola. Saints above. It’s been days and it’s still lurking there whenever Ferdinand closes his eyes. How tender and yielding Hubert had been, his same bitter self and yet something else, like just enough cream in coffee. And that torn-open look on his face when Ferdinand opened his eyes—that part, Ferdinand wishes he could forget.

Ugh. And the night he’d awoken to find himself snuggled tightly against Hubert’s side, lips pressed to one shoulder and his hair no doubt suffocating the poor man. It had felt far too comforting, familiar in a way he’d never earned—and it took him a few moments to wake up enough to realize that Hubert was _not_ his to dote on and snuggle against, and he should have thanked the Goddess for it.

Yet if Hubert could be his—

He smiles and dips Lysithea, only a modest one, but she laughs all the same. “Thanks, Ferdie.” She squeezes his hand as the music ends. “I’ve gotta go find Cyril next!”

“Enjoy,” Ferdinand calls, but she’s already off. He scans the dance floor as dancers shuffle on and off.

If Hubert could be his—

Well. Hubert himself has precluded any possibility of that. He exists for his duty—and that’s all this is, isn’t it? His duty. Even if Ferdinand finds it a bit of a stretch to believe that duty necessitates buying him perfectly coordinated earrings, or fixing him breakfast, or tending to his horses’ shoes—

Oh, Goddess. And now Ferdinand’s only seeing what he wants to see—

And that single glass of champagne is blurring it far more than necessary. He scans the dance floor one last time, but there’s no sign of Hubert now, so Ferdinand makes his way back toward the tables to enjoy some canapes.

Laughter all around him. The upper crust of the Leicester Alliance—as much as their strange little flattened-out society _has_ an upper crust—is out in full force tonight, and the rainbow of costumes is dizzying, the champagne bubbles going straight to his head—

“Ahh, there you are, Ferdinand!”

Ferdinand turns to find Lorenz himself before him, in an absolutely stunning column gown that appears to be pieced together from hundreds upon hundreds of embroidered burgundy and violet roses in all sizes. “Dear Lorenz.” Ferdinand extends both hands to him. “You look simply ravishing.”

“I could say the same for you!” Lorenz squeezes his hands, then makes his way to the sides of the room, trailing a train of silk rose petals. “But where is your little raincloud? Don’t tell me he refused to come—”

“Oh! No, he is here.” Ferdinand scans the crowd again, but there are too many people wearing all black. “I, ah—I had to share him, however.”

“More like he had to share you.”

Ferdinand’s face heats beneath his mask. “Be nice, Lorenz. He has come a long way. As have we all, I think.”

“Not as far as we’d like.” Lorenz sighs, gaze casting around—then coming to rest on one of the upper balconies of the ballroom. “Oh. It would seem von Riegan has cornered him—”

Ferdinand’s head whips up at that. Sure enough, Hubert is standing against the railing, a sneer on his face, arms crossed as he glowers down at the leader of the entire Leicester Alliance, by whose grace they are currently alive. Claude’s expression is hard to read at this distance, but the man wears so many masks, it’s not as if it would help him much.

“It would seem your gentleman caller is giving him an earful about something.” Ferdinand nudges Lorenz in the ribs. “I did not know he was so bossy, dear Lorenz.”

“Bossy—he isn’t—!” Lorenz coughs delicately. “And I never said _who_ he was—”

“Please, dearie. You did not have to. A pity he is not down here with you, however.” With a sudden grin, Ferdinand holds out his arm to Lorenz. “Would you care to make him jealous?”

Lorenz looks between Ferdinand and the balconette. “What about your lover? I’m afraid if you make _him_ jealous, he’ll simply slit my throat.”

With a pang, Ferdinand wishes that were even close to true. “He will understand it was all in the service of helping you win over Claude’s affections.”

“Well.” Lorenz smirks. “If you put it that way . . .”

Ferdinand tosses one last look to the upper balcony, head dizzy already from the evening. Dizzy with how much he wants exactly what Lorenz said—for Hubert to lay claim to him and protect him with every inch of the fierceness he protects his other duties. And as tantalizing as it has been to pretend, to feel this false comfort between them, embracing and kissing and confessing the most ridiculous secrets in his soul—

Even more than all of that, Ferdinand just wants Hubert to choose him.

He wants Hubert to want him _more_.

And if it’s far too late for that, or far too impossible a desire—then Ferdinand would rather not know. Because at least, for know, he can pretend that it could be true someday.

* * *

Hubert makes it all of two steps down the darkened corridor away from the upper level of the ballroom toward the palace offices when he’s stopped by Claude von Riegan and a retinue of ducal guards.

“Gloombert! Funny meeting you here,” Claude says. “The party’s just behind you.”

Hubert clenches his teeth. “I was only looking for the washrooms.”

“Too much champagne, huh? Gotta be careful.” Claude takes him by the arm, and it isn’t a request. “Wouldn’t want you to get sloppy. Let anything slip. Here, I’ll escort you.”

And so Hubert allows himself to be escorted away from the offices he sought and to the washrooms outside the ballroom instead. So much for mapping out the offices and their layout, to say nothing of collecting any information he can from the war room. Hubert concludes his business in the washroom and heads back out to find Claude still waiting for him.

“All better? C’mon. Let’s get back to the festivities.”

But where Claude steers him instead is an upper balcony overlooking the dance floor, and passes him a glass of champagne. Hubert sniffs it suspiciously and touches his House Vestra sigil ring to it—waits for the gemstone to change color to indicate poison.

“Oh, please. Like I’d poison one of our two biggest prizes.” Claude drinks without offering him a toast. “You’re going to help me fend off the Empire, after all.”

“We’ll do our best, in any case.” Hubert smiles thinly.

Claude exhales after taking a swig of champagne. “I gotta say, Gloombert, I never thought you had it in you. I mean, I always knew there had to be a deeply romantic, soft, gooey center to you, but . . . I never thought you’d ever crack that poisoned outer shell for anyone.” Claude raises an eyebrow. “Of course, I figured Edelgard of _all_ people would be ecstatic that you’d found someone to love just as much as you loved serving her. Not punish you for it. But that’s her loss, huh?”

_I cannot be your whole life,_ Edelgard had told him, just before they departed. _I want you to be happy, as well._ “I, ah. I suppose I prefer to give my all to one thing.” He inclines his head to the ballroom at large. “Hence—this.”

“Well, sure. But when you take care of your heart—when you let someone be your everything, and you’re theirs in turn . . . you just might find there’s more of you to give than if you’d gone it alone.” Claude slugs him on the arm. “Just something to keep in mind as you two figure your new life together, huh?”

“Indeed.”

They fall silent for a moment, and Claude steps closer toward the railing, a slight frown creasing the space between his brows. “Are you certain you are taking your own advice to heart, von Riegan?” Hubert asks, tracking Claude’s gaze.

“Huh.” Claude smiles sadly. “You’ve got me there.”

In the center of the ballroom, Hubert spots Ferdinand moving like liquid gold, caught in the eddies of Lorenz Gloucester’s tide of roses, and in spite of himself, Hubert feels a strange surge of pride. A pride he has not earned—a false pride. But pride nonetheless, that at least here, he can claim—he can pretend—

“You all right there, Gloombert?” Claude clamps his hand on the back of Hubert’s collar. “You’re looking a little choked up. C’mon. You’re way better off now than you were back at that school dance, right?”

“R-right,” Hubert says, more hesitant than he means to.

Claude laughs to himself. “Then c’mon.” Claude adjusts his grip to shove Hubert toward the grand staircase. “Let’s go get our men. Besides, I’ve got a grand entrance to make.”

* * *

Ferdinand laughs as Lorenz pulls him into a twirl beneath his arm, and he must be overdoing it, because he only narrowly keeps himself from tripping over that train of rose blossoms. “Is he still watching you?” Ferdinand asks, when they rejoin. He tries to peer over Lorenz’s shoulder, but he can’t get the right angle.

With a deeply unpleasant and sobering tug in his chest, Ferdinand finds himself wishing it were Hubert here with him instead.

“I don’t see them now, the sneaky devils. Maybe if we—Oh.”

“Oh?” Ferdinand asks, and—ugh, he really should have a better hold on himself—twists around to look behind him. “—Oh.”

Claude and Hubert both are descending the grand staircase, and quite abruptly, the revelers all turn to stare, and the string orchestra morphs their music into the anthem of the Alliance.

All eyes are on von Riegan and his majestic stag-themed garb, but it’s Hubert who seizes Ferdinand’s attention, as if he’s seeing him for the first time all over again. It had been one thing to see him so devilish and sly in their villa as they prepared for the masquerade. But now, the chandeliers skimming over the edges of his black costume, his piercing gaze shrouded in the raven’s mask, he is . . . decadent. Like a rich dessert torte suitable only for the most refined of palates.

Ferdinand cringes at himself. He _really_ is out of sorts if he’s comparing Hubert to desserts.

Claude moves straight for them, and the crowd parts, Hubert trailing in Claude’s wake. Like a shadow only Ferdinand sees. With an exaggerated flourish, Claude sweeps into a bow before Lorenz.

“Count Gloucester.” Claude smirks as he straightens. “Might I have the honor of a dance?”

Lorenz presses the back of his hand to his mouth with a blush, then nods, and lets himself be swept away in Claude’s arms. Ferdinand finds himself grinning at the sight of it—even if it does leave a strange lump in his throat.

“Congratulations,” Hubert purrs suddenly, right at Ferdinand’s ear. “I assume that was your intent all along?”

The lump dissolves, and Ferdinand smiles, though he doesn’t turn his head. “You know me. An incorrigible romantic.”

“One of your many charms.” Hubert’s gloved hand snakes around Ferdinand’s waist. “And as such, maybe you can find it in that bright heart of yours to suffer me a dance?” Hubert’s nose burrows in his hair. “I’ve been ever so patient.”

Everyone is still watching their leader and his beau. And of course their entire _purpose_ here is to convince everyone of their love. Yet it feels strangely exposing, painfully baring, to sink into Hubert’s arms; he feels all too vulnerable as he closes his eyes with a sigh. “It would be an honor.”

“H-honor,” Hubert echoes, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. He gives Ferdinand a spin so they’re face to face. “Your very presence is an honor, my love.”

And the painfully false term of endearment should snap Ferdinand from his spell. It should remind him of the fairytale they’re merely acting out. But he wants to stay enchanted. If only for just this night.

They reach for each other—each grasping at the other’s shoulders, as if waiting for the other to lead. “O-oh.” Hubert laughs, shaky; lowers his arms. “—Whose turn is it, again?”

“Yours, I think.”

Hubert smiles, eyes crinkling through the holes of his mask. And has Ferdinand ever noticed that crinkle before? It was always disguised, before. They clasp hands, and Hubert’s hand grips at his hip, gloved thumb right at the small gap in the dancer’s costume that exposes the side of Ferdinand’s torso.

“We do seem to be making a habit of this,” Hubert says. “Dancing together.”

Ferdinand allows himself to be stepped backward into the sharp romantic two-step of the Morfis-flavored dance. “Good.”

They glide forward and back, Ferdinand’s hair tickling at his exposed shoulderblades as it sways. When they danced at the ball years ago, letting Hubert lead felt akin to a sparring contest, each of them constantly jostling for the upper hand. And at the banquet at the monastery last week (_Goddess, was it really just last week?_ he thinks) Hubert was simply going along with Ferdinand’s steps in his clumsy attempts at subterfuge.

But this—this feels all too balanced. A darker bass line beneath a bright melody. As if it doesn’t matter which one of them is leading, so long as they twine together in the end.

“You look . . . pensive,” Hubert murmurs, when next they pull together, Ferdinand’s chin hooked over his shoulder.

“Idly musing, is all.”

Hubert adjusts the clasp of their hands. “Indulge me.”

Ferdinand swallows. “Nothing you would want to hear.”

He steps Ferdinand back, their faces close. “Nonsense. I always want to hear.”

Ferdinand bites his lower lip and loses himself in the steps. One, two, two, one. If only everything between them could be as straightforward as this. “I wish this could be—” He winces. Tries to shrink away behind his mask. But he can’t say it. He can’t bear to be rejected again—

_Real._

“Be what, darling?”

Ferdinand shakes his head.

“Is—is my dancing really so terrible?” Hubert laughs, and a tremor passes through his arms to Ferdinand. “I’ll let you lead from now on.”

“No, you won’t.” Ferdinand makes himself smile. “You say that, but you will not.”

“I can try.” The music swells—they step faster and faster, a sharp line back and forth. “For you.”

_For you._ Not for the empire. Not for Her Majesty. Not for his own bloody sense of honor.

And Ferdinand craves that most of all.

“Ready?” Hubert whispers.

Ferdinand nods, breathless—and sinks back in Hubert’s lowered arms.

The domed ceiling far, far above them spins and swirls in dappled light. Hubert’s mouth closes on the knot of his throat, and gooseflesh rises on Ferdinand’s arms. The feathers of his mask brush up Ferdinand’s face. But it’s when Hubert pulls him back up, Ferdinand’s hair swirling behind him, that his heart truly leaps. It’s the intense glare of those peridot eyes; those gloved hands cradling the back of Ferdinand’s head like something precious to behold.

He is reading far, far too much into these moments and he doesn’t want to stop.

Hubert rights him fully and gently steps back. “Shall we—another—”

“N-no, it is all right—” Ferdinand laughs, far too high-pitched. “Did you not need to—ah, scout for—something—”

“Right.” Hubert huffs a breath of air; adjusts his mask. “I was in the middle of that when von Riegan interrupted me.”

Ferdinand leads them from the dance floor. “Then let us see what we can do now.”

* * *

Strictly speaking, the vast tiered courtyards in the palace’s inner horseshoe are on his list of places to scout. He needs to study how the paths lead down to the island’s docks, after all, for the purpose of easy escapes. And he is doing just that, when he is not sneaking sideways glimpses of the moonlight dancing across Ferdinand’s metallic accents.

“Anything specific we are looking for?” Ferdinand whispers, clinging tightly to Hubert’s arm in the rose-perfumed night air. They follow the cobbled path down a few tiers, the sounds of the harbor swirling around them, and Ferdinand nestles closer to Hubert’s side as if to ward off a chill.

“Hiding places. Escape routes. Anything we can use . . . ah . . . later.” Hubert swallows. He is still not ready to divulge the full extent of his plans to Ferdinand. But before, he’d been keeping them to himself out of distrust for Ferdinand’s skills at deception. But now, he feels unpleasantly protective.

As if he wants to spare Ferdinand the worst of what they must do. And—maybe, just maybe—prolong their stay.

They turn down the path, and find themselves in a labyrinthine sculpture garden. Strange figures in stone and metal twist upward into the night, limbs casting strange shadows that seem to writhe the deeper they move into it. An ideal place to hide, however—the shadows would certainly help conceal someone, confusing their pursuer.

Ferdinand steps between two large statues, and turns toward Hubert with a smile. “How strange. But . . . lovely, in its own way, don’t you think?” He laughs to himself; lowers his eyes. “Reminds me of someone.”

Hubert’s feet are pinned to the spot. He tries to nod, but can’t. All he can see is the man Ferdinand has become in full now—graceful as he’s always been, but bombast replaced with confidence, effort exchanged for effortlessness. Guileless and yet too clever for his own good. Soft and kind in all the ways Hubert wishes he knew how to be.

Strange and lovely and ever challenging. And maybe it’s the night, maybe it’s his need to move past all of this, but—Ferdinand deserves to know.

“Ferdie?” Hubert asks softly. Because he cannot concentrate, he cannot allow himself to remain distracted, and the only way to free himself is to ask—

The golden lights of the ballroom paint Ferdinand so brightly still, somehow, amidst the shadows of the statues. “Mm?”

“I, ah. I just wanted to tell you, while we have a moment to speak freely, how much I appreciate you—” Void’s sake, he was botching this already. “That is, how much I appreciate you being such a worthy—partner in all of this,” he says in a rush. “I could not have asked for a better companion.”

Ferdinand smiles, the openness of it painful. “Are you saying I am capable of some subtlety and subterfuge?”

Hubert takes a step closer, joining him between two particularly curly sculptures. “You bring . . . other skills. Ones whose value I had never realized before.”

Ferdinand presses one palm to Hubert’s chest, and Hubert’s breath hitches. Can he feel how fiercely his pulse is pounding? “This is sounding dangerously complimentary.”

“It’s only that—” Hubert bites his lower lip. “Sometimes you look at me like—like you think I detest you, or that I’m still the same fool who treated you—”

He stops; swallows down air. His hands are clenched tight, so tight the creased leather aches where it’s bunched at the joints of his fingers. Ferdinand’s head tips to the side. Carefully, he takes one of Hubert’s fists in hand, and gently eases his fingers back.

“I do not hate you.” Ferdinand’s voice is wispy as smoke. “It would be easier if I did. But I cannot.”

Hubert’s hand trembles in Ferdinand’s grasp. He moistens his lips, terrified of what foolish thing he might say next. He can stop this. It isn’t too late. “We—we should—”

“Who’s there?” someone calls.

Their eyes lock. Palace guards. Hubert takes Ferdinand’s hand to pull them back behind one of the sculptures—

But Ferdinand seizes him by both arms instead, and swings him back against the garden wall. Hubert gasps, the air knocked from him as he slams into the ivy-covered stone, but before he can recover, Ferdinand pins him and place and covers Hubert’s mouth with his own.

Hubert shudders as their lips slide together. He opens his mouth, and Ferdinand licks into him, his taste unbearably sweet and bright, his eagerness dizzying. Hubert whimpers into him as Ferdinand’s thigh pushes between his own. And he knows he shouldn’t want this, but right now, that velvet mouth enveloping him, those sturdy hands pinning his wrists above his head, that powerful cavalryman’s form bearing down on him, inevitable—he can’t think of a damned reason why he would ever want anything _but_.

“Ferdie,” Hubert gasps, his raven mask getting knocked askew as he tilts back his head. “Flames.”

Ferdinand laughs, more air than noise, and shifts both of Hubert’s wrists into one of his hands. “Should we make our way back to the festivities, darling?” he says, louder than necessary.

A role. Right. Hubert swallows, his jacket collar somehow far too tight suddenly. “N-not just yet,” he manages to say, loud enough to be overheard.

“Mm. I was hoping you would agree.”

Behind them, Hubert hears the snort of the patrolling guard. But Ferdinand quickly recaptures his full attention by clamping his teeth down on the side of Hubert’s throat.

“Flames—Ferdie—”

A shy laugh; Ferdinand kisses the same spot, gentler. “Too much?” he whispers, and it’s hardly the kind of question Hubert can answer honestly, so he rears up off of the wall and captures Ferdinand’s mouth with his own instead. Captures, but then surrenders—loses himself in the overwhelming force of Ferdinand, hungry and determined and everything Hubert could ever want.

If only he could claim it for real—

The guard’s footsteps retreat back into the night, and with a contented sigh, Ferdinand rolls his head up, so that only their foreheads meet now.

“N-nice thinking,” Hubert says, his damned voice wavering absurdly. “An excellent ruse—”

Ferdinand rolls his eyes. “You daft raven.”

And then he kisses Hubert’s throat again—

“A-are we being watched still?” Hubert gasps.

Ferdinand stops, abruptly; his grip loosens on Hubert’s wrists, letting one hand drop. Bright eyes meet Hubert’s own, searching, uncertain.

“Would you want me to stop if we were not?”

Hubert bites his lower lip. He is weary of fighting; he is so, so awake.

And this time, some idiot named Hubert says: “No.”

With a growl, Ferdinand thrusts their mouths together, and Hubert brings his freed hand around to peel back Ferdinand’s mask and grab a fistful of hair. Ferdinand cries out into his mouth, but it only makes him rock his hips more solidly against Hubert’s, devastating and delirious and everything Hubert’s dreamed of and denied himself for so long.

Hubert releases his hair to clutch at Ferdinand’s lower back, savoring the bunch and twist of honed muscles as Ferdinand’s body aligns with his. One of the gauze veils of the dancer’s costume slips free, tugging off of Ferdinand’s shoulder, exposing hot skin to the gap on Hubert’s wrist between glove and cuff.

Hubert could surrender to this—Hubert _will_ surrender. He will allow it. He is ravaged, he is pinned, and he is welcoming it, letting himself melt and spread around Ferdinand’s endless heat.

How can he stop this? Why did he ever want to? Hubert can’t remember, can’t conjure up a single damned reason why he wouldn’t want this burning enthusiasm bearing down on him, soft lips and firm body; why he wouldn’t want to be consumed in that fire. It’s pointless to fight it. It’s like fighting the dawn.

Ferdinand’s thigh between his is weighing against him, uncomfortably and insistently present. Hubert shifts his legs wider, and with a pleased murmur, Ferdinand grips the back of Hubert’s thigh.

“Ferdie,” Hubert gasps, mouth charting a path straight for Ferdinand’s ear. “You wicked, bright thing—”

Ferdinand whimpers against Hubert’s neck, teeth finding purchase again.

“Flames, I want to be destroyed by you.” He flicks his tongue at the lobe of Ferdinand’s ear, making the earring there dance.

Ferdinand sobs, and tightens his hold on Hubert’s wrist. “Don’t push me away this time.”

“I won’t.” Hubert’s teeth nibble higher along the curve of Ferdinand’s ear. He opens his eyes, and doesn’t flinch away this time; he kisses Ferdinand’s temple. Kisses gold-painted eyelids. “Flames, I won’t. I’m tired of fighting, of—”

A shadow stretches long from the tangled metal limbs of the statue garden, taking aim—

And somehow Hubert manages to rip himself out of the intoxicating fug that is _Ferdinand von Aegir_ to dredge up one single remaining ounce of self-preservation and protectiveness.

“Down!” Hubert shouts, and flings Ferdinand off of him, sending him toppling to the ground.

He reaches for his belt, remembering too late his magic tome is nowhere nearby. Jerks to one side as Ferdinand cries out in confusion.

With a whistle, the cool night air parts around a glittering blade as it slams into the garden wall, in the space their heads had just occupied.

“Hubert, what in the goddess’s name—”

Hubert wrenches the dagger from where it has embedded into the thick ivy and bounds out of the alcove. Shadows and stone and metal limbs writhe all around him. He scans, frantic, in search of movement—

There, slipping just around the corner, headed toward the docks. He bounds forward. Heart hammering. His whole body is raw and full of energy just waiting to be channeled, and if he can’t turn that force on Ferdinand, then he will turn it on their assailant—

He readies the knife, the hilt’s shape and weight startlingly familiar—one he’s practiced throwing thousands of time.

One he’s . . .

Hubert blinks. The movement is gone, their attacker vanished. But now his attention is solely on the dagger in his hand.

“What in all the hells are you doing—” Ferdinand skids up toward him, clutching the shoulder of his dancer’s costume where it had slipped down his arm. “H-Hubert? What is . . .”

Numb, Hubert holds the dagger out to him.

The dagger’s hilt is crafted in the shape of one of the highest military honors of Adrestia: the Order of the Black Eagle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** Rethinking strategy.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Denial & Deception Fanart!
> 
> ["We can't always have what we desire" (Ch 4)](https://twitter.com/kayyabread/status/1195129238510329856) by [@kayyabread](http://twitter.com/kayyabread)
> 
> [A Derdriu gondola ride (Ch 7)](https://twitter.com/BeaRdezF/status/1196474676161196035) by [@BeaRdezF](http://twitter.com/BeaRdezF)
> 
> [Hubert's masquerade look (Ch 9)](https://twitter.com/AtsumeSuzume/status/1197686884824158209) by [@AtsumeSuzume](http://twitter.com/AtsumeSuzume)
> 
> All thanks goes to Steph for giving me ridiculous Tuscan tourism ideas.
> 
> Ferdibert Week is upon us, as well as Ficmas! I'm going to be posting a lot of things that aren't Denial & Deception, but I will be keeping up with this fic, too. I'm not sure I can finish it by the year's end but that's the goal.

By the time they’re permitted to leave the Duke’s Palace island, a pink blush is creeping into the eastern sky. Claude’s guards conduct a thorough search of the grounds and the palace itself, but can find no evidence of an intruder beyond the knife. Ferdinand can barely manage to answer the guards’ simple questions; he’s exhausted and shaken, and was far more concerned with pinning Hubert to the garden wall at the time of the attack, not that he cares to elaborate on _that_.

Hubert, however, is a sight to behold: a torrent of fury and fierceness, demanding to know how such a breach could have possibly happened. “Are you all right?” he keeps asking Ferdinand, hands clasped to Ferdinand’s cheeks, eyes livid and sharp as ever. “Are you certain?”

Ferdinand can only nod as he wraps his arms around himself to ward off the cold sea breeze. At some point, Hubert’s velvet jacket ends up draped over his shoulders, a spicy, rich scent soothing him as it wafts from the fabric. As he watches Hubert pace the gardens with the guards, dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms and his bared neck revealing a blossoming bruise, Ferdinand is dimly aware:

_Oh. I suppose I _was _pinning Hubert to the garden wall._

It is perhaps something they should elaborate on, after all, when he doesn’t feel like a flattened tin can.

* * *

When they return to the villa at last, Ferdinand is so exhausted he can barely make it up the steps. But Hubert’s hands grip beneath his elbows; Ferdinand sinks back against the steadying wall of Hubert’s chest.

“I’ve got you,” Hubert murmurs, right in his ear. “I won’t let you fall.”

And for all his doubts and fears and past experience—he desperately wants it to be true.

Hubert scoops him into his arms with a weighty groan and settles Ferdinand onto the sumptuous bed. Their gazes lock; Ferdinand feels pulled toward him like the tide, a gravity he never wants to escape. Hubert sweeps the hair back from Ferdinand’s face with a scared smile perched hesitantly on his elegant lips.

“Thank you,” Ferdinand says, and raises a drowsy hand to touch Hubert’s cheek.

Hubert closes his eyes at the touch. “You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you. It’s what anyone would do.”

Ferdinand bites his lower lip as his hand falls back down. “I do not want just anyone.”

Hubert inhales. Steadies himself. Then one knee is pressing along Ferdinand’s side as Hubert leans over to kiss his forehead.

But Hubert’s still dressed; he’s still not climbing into bed. And maybe Ferdinand should feel relieved—save the question of just what happened between them for another day—but all he really wants now is Hubert’s warmth, his embrace, his confidence that he can master any challenge. All he wants is Hubert.

Ferdinand catches his wrist, and Hubert lets his wrist be held, keeping his body bent over Ferdinand’s. Not touching, but it’s a near thing.

“Stay,” Ferdinand breathes. Quiet enough, surely.

Hubert waits a moment, searching him. Then his expression falls.

“Someone tried to hurt you,” he says, voice a low rumble. “I intend to find out who.”

A frisson of pleasure. Hubert at his most dangerous and cunning has always been a sight to behold—and the thought of him being that vengeful shadow on Ferdinand’s behalf . . .

“You need sleep,” Hubert adds, kissing his hair again. “Please.”

And though Ferdinand hates the chill he feels when Hubert straightens and pulls away, he knows he’s right—and before Hubert’s even vanished from the room, he’s lost in a cold dreamscape.

* * *

By the time Ferdinand wakes up, the sun has set again, and Hubert has crashed beside him, mouth wrenched open and brows twisted in silent agony. So Ferdinand spends what’s left of the sixteenth finalizing plans for the following day.

When he wakes up on the seventeenth, however, Hubert is not only already awake, but has fixed breakfast for them both. Yet again.

“I was going to take you to the Star Plaza to have breakfast at a café,” Ferdinand grumbles, leaning against the kitchen doorway.

“What for? We have perfectly good ingredients here.”

“What for?” Ferdinand echoes. “For your _birthday_, you silly weasel—Would you _sit down_ and let me finish cooking, at least?”

“Oh, darling,” Hubert says—and Ferdinand winces at the pet name, a reminder both of the unresolved question of _what now_ and the fact that there are too many ears on them to resolve it. “Not being subjected to your cooking is gift enough.”

“I am an _adequate_ cook—”

“You nearly burned the monastery down. Twice.”

Ferdinand sits down with a huff. “Well. Happy birthday, all the same.”

“It is,” Hubert says, and joins him, serving up the plates for them both. “Since I’m sharing it with you.”

Ferdinand closes his eyes; how is this so much worse now? Now that he knows that—for whatever reason, for however briefly, Hubert was amenable to kissing him without a need to deceive? More than amenable, really, judging by the sweet, pliant moans he made. And Ferdinand should really not be thinking about finding more ways to draw those out—but when he spies the fading mark on Hubert’s neck once more, he can think of nothing but.

Hubert raises one eyebrow as he sips his morning coffee. “What’s that smile for?”

“Just thinking on the events I have planned for today.” Ferdinand picks up his fork. “But first, won’t you join me for my morning ride?”

* * *

Their guards make themselves even more noticeable when they take Marcus and Avané out into the streets of Derdriu, enough that even Ferdinand feels the constant press of their stares—but it isn’t enough to damper the festive mood he’s determined to have.

“You’re whistling,” Hubert says suspiciously, from where he trots alongside Ferdinand.

“Indeed I am.”

“You whistling always seems to spell certain disaster for me.”

Ferdinand reaches out and pats his cheek. “Depends on how you define ‘disaster.’” He pulls Marcus up short to keep pace with the slower mare. “It is your birthday, and I intend to make the most of it.”

The deep flush of Hubert’s cheeks and the tips of his ears bring Ferdinand no small amount of satisfaction. But Hubert wrestles back his expression into his usual glower. “Someone tried to kill you, darling. I have more important work to do than fuss about some day on a calendar.”

“But if I don’t make a fuss over you,” Ferdinand asks, “who will?”

He means it in jest, but Hubert’s stunned look sends a wave of shame crashing over him. The answer is all too apparent. No one except Her Majesty might even mark his birthday’s passing—and even she has likely long given up trying to get him to celebrate.

“Please,” Ferdinand says, trying to lighten his tone once more, though even he is no longer sure whether this is his voice of pretending to be enamored or not. “Allow me to dote on you.”

Hubert’s shoulders fall, and he nods, keeping his face forward. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Well, I think you will enjoy yourself all the same.”

And it’ll be good to spend the day out of the villa. Ferdinand still feels shaky and cold at the memory of the masquerade; for in the moment, at least, Hubert—the real Hubert, not the Hubert of their subterfuge—had wanted to kiss him and be kissed, had blunted his harsh edges against Ferdinand, had surrendered the way Ferdinand used to dream he might—free of fear, free of his outsize sense of obligation—

And yet how can they address it? What can Ferdinand say? Could Hubert possibly want him, in the clarity of daylight, without the veil of deception they share? Would he be a fool to let Hubert into his heart once more?

They round a corner, riding alongside the canals now, and Hubert nudges Avané closer. She whickers and runs her snout against Marcus’s, who nudges back in return. “I haven’t received an answer yet from the messages I sent,” Hubert says under his breath, “but I believe we are facing two distinct possibilities.”

The assassination attempt. Right. Ferdinand schools his face into his general’s expression, somber and definitely not thinking about how Hubert tastes.

“The first is that Her Majesty arranged for a failed attempt, and did not inform us to preserve the element of surprise—which is certainly clever enough for her to have concocted.” Hubert smirks at that, proud of his lady. “The second, however, is that Claude is testing us. It seems less likely, as I do not know how he’d have gained access to such a rare dagger, but it sounds like just his sort of tactic.”

“You are forgetting two other options,” Ferdinand says.

Hubert raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“The actions of displeased subordinates, on either side.” Ferdinand glances over his shoulder; the guards are only just rounding the corner, but are still far enough away. “You mentioned General Ladislava seemed particularly displeased by our ‘betrayal.’ Even if Edelgard didn’t explicitly allow her to seek retribution, she might have undertaken it on her own.”

Hubert taps a finger to his lips. “An unsettling possibility, but plausible.”

“And the same could be true amongst Claude’s people, too. You have seen the way Hilda regards us. She might have decided we are more trouble than we are worth, or that she does not buy our story, even if Claude does.”

Hubert lets out a slow breath. “None of this speculation bring us any closer to stopping this unseen assailant, unfortunately. I’m afraid I can’t do much more except be on guard until my agents get word back to me.”

“Then if there is nothing to be done . . .” Ferdinand reaches across to pat Hubert’s thigh; Hubert gives a little jolt, but quickly dons that painfully false smile he reserves for when they are being observed. Ferdinand sinks into the saddle; it had been too much, he supposes, to hope for something genuine. “We might as well relax, and enjoy your birthday to its fullest.”

Hubert’s hand falls on top of Ferdinand’s, and, locking their fingers together, he brings their joined hands to his lips. “I am positively terrified to find out what you have in store.” He kisses Ferdinand’s fingers. “But as long as you are with me, I suppose I can endure.”

Ferdinand feverishly hopes that’s true.

* * *

“This,” Hubert says, squinting into the crisp midday sun, “is a winery.”

“The most esteemed vineyard on the northern coast,” Lorenz corrects, joining them at the railing that overlooks the vast gardens and vineyards beyond.

They are an hour’s carriage ride to the east of Derdriu, accompanied by Lorenz, Marianne, Ignatz, and Lysithea—an hour Hubert largely spent hypothesizing on various ingenious methods they’d all devised to dispose of him. Ordinarily, Ferdinand might’ve been annoyed by his curmudgeoning, but it became oddly endearing, and their companions took it in stride, making a great game out of inventng ways to assassinate the former assassin. When Ferdinand suggested creative applications of decorative vases and acid, Hubert actually _giggled_, and rested his head against Ferdinand’s shoulder. _Remind me not to cross you again, love, _he’d said.

“It is not so much about the wine itself,” Ferdinand explains now. “Only that it is an idyllic place to relax and enjoy good company. Ignatz graciously offered to sketch our portrait in the gardens as well, if you would like,” Ferdinand adds, heat rising on his cheeks.

Hubert blinks, bewildered, as Ferdinand wraps around his arm. “P . . . portrait? But I—I have no need of a portrait of myself.”

“I know.” Ferdinand kisses his cheek, and Hubert makes a sweet, soft sound that Ferdinand commits to memory for later. “But I want one.”

Hubert’s body unwinds against his, and he lets out a strange laugh. “I see.” His grip tightens in Ferdinand’s. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at . . . relaxing.”

“That’s why we’re here to help. That, and an unfettered access to the Leicester Alliance’s finest vintages.”

“Speaking of,” Lorenz declares loudly, “I think I’ll start with a bright, sparkling white.”

“Myself as well,” Ferdinand agrees, then turns to Hubert. “What would you care for?”

Hubert bites his lower lip. “I’m not sure.” After a moment, he adds, “The—dark wine we had at the villa the other night was pleasant.”

And, Goddess, how domestic it all feels—a life together, a shared history, even if it only goes back a few days. Building something hand in hand, stone by stone, or maybe thread by thread—a tapestry they’ve woven together, their colors now intertwined, and no matter what pattern follows, there will always be this stretch—

Saints above, though, Ferdinand can’t contemplate that just now. What comes next, most likely, involves the Adrestian Army trampling through these vineyards, Derdriu on fire on the horizon and the Leicester Alliance leadership imprisoned or worse. What comes next is what has always been—Hubert firmly leashed to Her Majesty’s side, with no thoughts or wishes of his own save for her will. All those things he wants _more_.

A will Ferdinand is happy to enforce, he reminds himself—as he has always been, once he saw the rightness of her work. He only wished that Hubert knew how to balance it against his own desires, if he even has such things. He only wished he himself knew a better way of bringing the Alliance around.

But it will do them no good today to dwell on what’s coming for them all. Today, he’s determined to make Hubert enjoy himself, whether he likes it or not.

They find a picnic table beneath a vine-encrusted arbor on an outcropping overlooking the gardens and coastline beyond, and set out their spread of cured meats, cheeses, breads, pickled root vegetables, fig preserves. “Fig . . . preserves?” Hubert asks, bewildered, as Ferdinand shows him how to dress his bread.

Ferdinand pauses, cheese knife in hand. “Well, you should at least try them. If you don’t like them, that’s all right, but—”

“No, I trust your taste.” Hubert nudges him fondly. “I’d never have thought to try such a thing, is all.”

Ferdinand tries not to watch too carefully as Hubert bites into his spread, but his brows twist upward with a pleased murmur. “Oh. That’s delicious.”

“A man of taste,” Ferdinand says, and kisses his temple with a silly flutter in his belly.

Hubert smiles at him, and laces Ferdinand’s hand in his.

“Soooo,” Lysithea drawls, “seeing as how you two lovebirds are already having a pretty sweet honeymoon here, you think you’re gonna get married anytime soon?” With a sly look at Lorenz, she adds, “We could use a big wedding to fuss over.”

Ferdinand manages not to spray his sip of muscat everywhere, but Hubert squeezes his hand and leans forward. “Now, now, Lady Ordelia, I cannot share all my secrets,” Hubert says.

“I’m ordained in the Church of Seiros,” Marianne says. “If—if you wanted my help—”

“Oh!” Ferdinand’s face is burning, despite the shade of the arbor. “Oh, there is no rush—I am certain that if and when the time is right—”

“I’m curious to hear about the rest of you,” Hubert says, mercifully sparing him. “Don’t think we didn’t notice your choice of dance partners at the masquerade.”

Ferdinand relaxes, glad to have the focus off of them for once, though Hubert’s teasing words echo in his mind. It’s all just for show. Even if what they’re sharing right now is real, there will be no future to this.

“I just think Cyril’s neat,” Lysithea says, digging a meringue out of the picnic basket, “and if you ask me about it again, I’ll set you both on fire.”

“Hilda’s doing her best,” Marianne says.

“I am sure Duke Riegan paid equal mind to all his esteemed guests,” Lorenz begins, as preamble to what will no doubt be a lengthy lecture, except—

“Actually, Raphael and I have been seeing each other for a few months now,” Ignatz announces. Every head at the table whips toward him, and his face goes as red as the preserves. “W-what? We were gonna tell you all, but we figured you knew . . .”

Lysithea’s nose crinkles. “How does that even—I mean, _mechanically_—”

“How am _I_ the last to hear of this?” Lorenz cries.

As their companions focus on interrogating one another, Hubert’s thumb brushes over Ferdinand’s knuckles, and he turns toward him with a shy smile.

“I’ve been meaning to apologize . . .” he starts, voice pitched well beneath the bantering.

Ferdinand’s chest tightens as his clutch on Hubert’s hand falls away. “For what?”

“For the chaos of yesterday. We both needed our rest, and I had to—” He stops; glances down. “Anyway, I never got a chance to properly thank you for such an enchanted night. The ending notwithstanding.”

Ferdinand’s heart is racing, crowding out the sounds of their friends and the relentless crash of waves from the nearby sea. He should be content with this, and yet—“What about the part . . . preceding the end?”

Hubert’s lips part as he breathes in; as he studies Ferdinand’s face, he brushes his free hand over the locks of hair on Ferdinand’s shoulder. “Especially that.”

Countless questions fizzle on Ferdinand’s tongue. Some he can’t ask here—but so many more he can’t bring himself to ask at all. There is no answer, he fears, that will make any of this better—he should enjoy this effervescent feeling while he can.

“Then maybe we can continue later,” he says instead, and relishes the way Hubert bites his lower lip—

“I’d say it’s time for your portrait sitting!” Ignatz declares, bobbing up out of the maelstrom of his friends’ questions. “The sun’s just right in the sky, and there’s a perfect overlook we can use.”

Ferdinand turns back to their companions, though he feels all watery inside. “If it pleases you, Hubert . . .”

Hubert stands from the bench, and squeezes Ferdinand’s shoulder. “It pleases me if it pleases you.”

* * *

They wander the vineyard and gardens in search of Ignatz’s perfect setting, the farm hounds scampering around their feet (especially after Ferdinand slips them a few slices of soppressata). Lysithea and Lorenz chatter excitedly about an upcoming market day at the month’s end, which Ferdinand tries to ignore—the month’s end is traditionally when the Adrestian Army prefers to wages its campaigns, after all—but if Hubert is troubled by it, he doesn’t show it, instead glancing at Ferdinand repeatedly as if looking for reassurance. He is so out of his element, and yet placing his trust fully in Ferdinand—and Ferdinand wants, with an embarrassing fervor, to make good on that trust.

“Oh,” Hubert says, as they approach the vista.

A bright teal sea rises up to match an equally vivid sky, stretching north as far as the eye can see. The sun is just low enough into the west to cast a soft golden glow around the edges of the rosebushes, complementing Hubert’s rust-colored blouse and the faint ruddiness his complexion has gained from their time in Derdriu. His hair, too, is softer and wavier from the bright air, and when Ferdinand reaches over to brush it back from his eye—just by a fraction—he winces, but makes no move to push it back into place.

“There you go.” Ignatz finishes setting up his easel and opens his tray of pastels. “Just try your best to act natural.”

Hubert loops a stiff arm around Ferdinand’s waist and stares dead ahead, his expression so grave Ferdinand has to laugh.

“What?” Hubert asks. “Is this not how you pose for your portrait?” He makes a face at Ferdinand. “This is how everyone looks in the portrait gallery back in . . . back in Enbarr,” he finishes quietly.

“We aren’t commemorating the signing of some treaty,” Ferdinand says. He reaches across Hubert’s body to lace his far hand in his own. “We are merely two men in love, enjoying a beautiful spring day.”

They angle toward each other, then, and Hubert’s expression softens, and as they hold each other’s gazes, Ferdinand can’t help the thought from running through his head: _Goddess, he’s beautiful._ This isn’t the only side of Hubert, but it’s one he hasn’t seen enough of—gentle and doting, that hard-edged ruthlessness and loyalty mellowed into protectiveness and adoration.

“You’re laughing at something,” Hubert says, though he’s smiling as he says it.

“I am happy.”

He blinks a few times; adjusts his hold on Ferdinand. “Good.”

After a short while, Ignatz calls them over. “I’ve got enough lines down to finish this on my own. You can take a look if you want.”

As they step around the easel, Ferdinand’s heart twinges. Ignatz has cast Hubert’s shape in soft browns and greens, complementary to Ferdinand’s fiery hues. The gardens are paler around them, save for bright, warm pops of blooms. But most of all, it’s the expressions on their faces—sketchy still, but vivid—that steal Ferdinand’s breath.

_Adoring._

Ferdinand steps away with sudden tears in his eyes.

“Ferdie?” Hubert follows him, and, Goddess, how did it become so effortless for him to offer up these tender touches, to be so near? How can they both be so at ease? “Are you all right?”

“I just . . .” _I want this,_ he thinks. _I want this to be real. _And he’s coming dangerously close to believing it’s true.

Instead, he turns and clasps Hubert’s hands in his own. “I think it’s time for the balloon.”

* * *

Hubert is wedged into one corner of the wicker balloon basket, fingers clawed at the edges in a death grip. They haven’t even begun their ascent yet, and he already looks ready to hurl. “Did you know when you arranged this,” Hubert spits out through gritted teeth, “that I detest heights?”

Ferdinand suppresses a burst of laughter. “I did not know you were afraid of _anything_.”

“A few things,” Hubert mutters, and glares a hole at the basket floor.

“I apologize,” Ferdinand says. “I thought it might be nice to glimpse the city and countryside at sunset from above, that’s all. And it’s certainly a stabler ride than on the back of a pegasus.”

“Ah. Clever.” Hubert nods to himself. “An aerial survey of Derdriu’s defenses. You _are_ full of surprises, Ferdinand. Very well, I suppose I can endure it.”

Ferdinand winces. “I . . . Yes. My plan exactly.”

“Ready?” the balloonmaster calls from the ground, at the other end of the tether. At the center of their riding basket, a burner churns with a magical flame to feed hot air into the silken balloon billowing above them, straining to reach toward the sky.

“Ready!” Ferdinand confirms, and seats himself beside Hubert. Carefully, he pries one of Hubert’s hands free of the basket’s edge and clutches it in his own. “Will you be all right?”

Hubert swallows and nods, and the balloon begins to rise as the tether eases.

And then they are alone, drifting up into the Leicester skies, orange and violet with sunset as the vineyards shrink away beneath them.

Carefully, they turn to watch over the basket’s lip, and Hubert stays latched onto Ferdinand’s side, face half-buried in Ferdinand’s neck. Derdriu begins to emerge on the distant western cliffs, a strong silhouette against the setting sun. No one to watch them, no one to listen to them—they are finally truly alone together, and still Hubert clings to him, and Ferdinand doesn’t want him to let go.

“All right?” Ferdinand asks softly.

Hubert nods against him. “All right.”

“Do you want to try looking?”

Hubert’s chest rises against him. “Yes.”

He pries his head up off of Ferdinand’s neck to watch the craggy cliffs unfurling beneath them. The northern sea foams at their edges, relentless, but unable to batter their defenses down. The fresh air and sea breeze and faint scent of fire and Hubert’s body so close to his own make a heady cologne all its own. Hubert murmurs approvingly, but stays nestled against Ferdinand’s side for a long minute. Watching.

Finally, Hubert lets out a slow breath. “Ferdie, I . . .”

“You don’t have to call me that.” Ferdinand’s jaw tightens. “No one is listening.”

“But—that’s why I wanted to speak to you.” Hubert squeezes his eyes shut. “What happened at the masquerade . . .”

Cold rushes through Ferdinand like a clammy fever. “Let me guess. You think it was a mistake.”

Hubert’s breath tickles at his collar. “No.”

Ferdinand waits, head spinning—he doesn’t trust his ears.

“I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to push you away. But this hold you have on me is—frightening.” Hubert swallows, and surveys the rocky landscape and sea beyond. “I’ve never known how to master it. And so the safest thing has been to—not.”

Ferdinand feels nauseated; now he’s the one swaying, unsteady. “Please. Please don’t. You made yourself perfectly clear—you do not want me enough—”

“Ferdinand,” Hubert says, and finally Ferdinand forces himself to look at him. He looks _miserable_—green-hued and unsteady and tormented. “The truth is—I want you far, far too much.”

There is only silence, save the roar of the flame keeping them aloft, and the whistle of wind around them. The creaking of the ropes. The anxious huff of Hubert’s breath as he turns his head away.

“You idiotic ass,” Ferdinand says, and yanks Hubert back to him by his collar.

Hubert groans as he kisses Ferdinand; their lips meet with bruising force. His eyes are squeezed shut, but Ferdinand’s are open, not wanting to miss a moment. Though Hubert is taller, he is sinking, melting into Ferdinand’s grip, mouth opening like petals to the sun as Ferdinand drinks him in. When Ferdinand’s teeth catch his lower lip, he cries out and shudders, and, Goddess, does Ferdinand want to hear him do that again and again.

They pause, and Hubert sinks back down, sitting in the basket once more, head tilting back against it. They’ve begun their descent, Ferdinand realizes; too soon, they’ll be back on the ground, locked back into the roles they must play.

Whatever that even means anymore, he can’t begin to say.

“Flames, you are . . . torture,” Hubert says, breathless. “Exquisite torture. I thought, if I could only wait until the war was won, Her Majesty’s victory secured, then I could . . .” He shakes his head. “But you’re _you_, half the empire’s in love with you, and why shouldn’t they be? You were courting that knight and all I could think of was murdering him in his sleep—”

“No murdering!” Ferdinand shrieks. “We had one miserable picnic and he was just dreadful—”

“_I’m_ dreadful,” Hubert snaps. “I’d do anything to keep you away. But then _this_ happened and even I can only withstand torture for so long—”

“I’m in love with you,” Ferdinand blurts. “But I’m afraid I’m only in love with who you’re pretending to be.”

Hubert’s mouth opens with no sound, lower lip trembling. The basket shudders as the flame begins to sputter out. The balloonmaster calls out and tosses the tether over the basket’s side, and their friends cheer on their return to the ground.

“Hope you remembered to look at the scenery!” Lysithea shouts.

Ferdinand stands up, ready to climb over the lip—but Hubert catches him by the wrist, eyes imploring.

“All I’ve ever done with you is pretend,” Hubert whispers. His hand falls with a sigh. “And a lot of good it did me. Here I am, just the same.”

Ferdinand tries to smile, but he’s trembling too much. “I’m glad for it,” he says, and climbs out.

* * *

Neither of them speaks as Ferdinand closes the bedroom door in their darkened villa. There are mere feet between them, yet it feels like a chasm, and they’re dangerously close to falling into its depths. Ferdinand’s pulse is deafening; his fingers itch, needing purpose—caressing, ensnaring, fisting in silk blouses and easing buttons apart and savoring cool pale skin.

“I . . .” Hubert starts, but whatever other words he means to say dissolve like sugar in his mouth.

Ferdinand steps forward like he’s wading through a stream. Crossing to the other side.

With a shaky breath, Hubert’s bare palm rests on Ferdinand’s chest, right at the V of his blouse. Ferdinand closes his hand atop it. Not trapping it. But trying, if only for this moment, to keep him. A tiny, impossible want.

Ferdinand wants to ask so much of him, wants to finish their conversation from the balloon ride, and yet none of it is safe for their listeners’ ears.

He doesn’t want to share Hubert any longer.

“Do you want me?” he asks instead, and hopes the tremor in his voice asks for him the question he really means: _Do you want me more? Do you want me enough?_

Hubert’s throat bobs; a pink tongue grazes his lips. “Yes.”

Ferdinand pushes Hubert’s bangs back with his free hand. The face he’s looking at now looks every bit as small and terrified as Ferdinand felt that night five years ago; it unlocks a dark room in his mind he’d rather seal off. Will they both shatter this time, brittle and cold as glass?

But if he has to break, Ferdinand thinks, at least he won’t break alone.

His fingers slip back around Hubert’s head and guide his mouth to his.

Hubert moans into him as Ferdinand eases open their lips; he wraps his other arm around Ferdinand’s waist as if clinging to him in a storm. Hubert’s dark and bitter taste is softer now, somehow, or maybe it’s only that Ferdinand’s learned to savor it, and it makes the rest of the world more bland. And the way Hubert’s body bends to him, trembling, when he licks into Hubert’s mouth—if that’s how he’s rewarded, then he never wants to taste anything else.

They stumble to the bed, and Hubert sinks into the fog of the covers as Ferdinand bends over him, lips hungry for any patch of skin—the hollows of his collarbones, the curve of his ear, the center of his palms. When their mouths find each other again, they fumble out of clothing, breaking apart only long enough to wrestle with buttons, to gasp for air. Every kiss is like another plunge into a dark pool and Ferdinand wishes he could stay in the depths; wishes he never had to surface, where the cold air and doubts and questions can rush in.

No questions. Not now. He wants this for himself.

_We can’t always have what we desire._

What he desires, right now, this moment, is this—Hubert stripped bare beneath him, their skin flush together, a hand clutching the back of a thigh and fingers tangled in long locks and a desperate hunger outweighing any clumsiness and uncertainty.

Every taste of Hubert is a revelation: the wry corner of his lips, the smooth, lithe stretch of his chest, the leanly muscled inside of his thigh. Every sigh that accompanies it—an offering Ferdinand is all too eager to claim. Hubert is honed like a wicked dagger and yet each touch turns him soft, malleable—clay pleading for Ferdinand to shape it.

_Even if we can fool ourselves for a time . . ._

If it is foolish to be face to face, foreheads pressed together, gasping for each other’s air and staring into each other’s eyes—then he’ll be foolish.

If it’s foolish to lose himself in Hubert’s embrace, in his words, in the tantalizing half-promises of that agonized confession, in the long and deadly shadows he casts—let him be fooled.

If it’s foolish to trap slender thighs with his sturdier ones and coax and caress until he learns every note in Hubert’s range—then he will carve these moments in stone, so no matter what comes, they can never be erased.

He will cherish nails raked down his back and teeth clenched hard on his shoulder and the exquisite torture that is their guiding rhythm, their lifeblood. For all that he knows it will hurt later—let it be equally as cathartic right now.

Let them twist together in a lover’s knot, hair tangled and clinging to them both, sheets an irritation, the cool night no match for the glow under their skin that neither is quite ready to snuff out.

* * *

Ferdinand wakes up with Hubert curled up in his arms and Claude von Riegan looming over them both.

“Bleeding Sothis—” Ferdinand shrieks, and Hubert startles awake with a shout, dives a hand under a pillow as if for a nonexistent dagger as Ferdinand grabs frantically for a sheet to throw over them both—

“Well. Good morning to you, too. Sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh . . . interrupt.” The smirk on Claude’s face clearly says otherwise. He steps back from the bed and turns away from them. “Go on, take your time, I’ll wait.”

“The fuck do you want, von Riegan,” Hubert snarls. Ferdinand shoots him a Look before unearthing Hubert’s trousers from the depths of the crumpled sheets, and tosses them to him.

“To wish you a happy belated birthday, of course!” Claude laughs, hands on his hips. “Though from the sound of it—look of it, too—you didn’t need my help with that.”

Hubert’s hand wads his trousers up in his fist, but Ferdinand reaches over; covers the fist with his own. Hubert’s fingers stretch out, and he eases, leaning against Ferdinand instead.

“Anyway, since I’m here, how about you gentlemen come along with me for a little chat?” He glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “I think it’s time for the Alliance to make good on its investment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** A matter of some urgency.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **D&D FANART UPDATE!**
> 
> (Ch 8) [Preparing for the masquerade](https://twitter.com/wild_fae/status/1204107157907689473) by [@wild_fae](https://twitter.com/wild_fae)  
(Ch 10) [Birthday snapshots](https://twitter.com/meltingchocoart/status/1199899339620900864) by [@meltingchocoart](http://twitter.com/meltingchocoart)  
(Ch 10) [Balloon ride](https://twitter.com/diebreado1/status/1206702569411817473) by [@diebreado1](http://twitter.com/diebreado1)  
(Ch 10) [Surrender (slight NSFW)](https://twitter.com/Fe3hSins/status/1199885361255723008) by [@FE3HSins](http://twitter.com/Fe3hSins)
> 
> \--
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH for your patience over the past month as I dealt with zine deadlines, Ferdibert Week, Ficmas, secret Santa exchanges, and real life, of course! I'm sorry this is such a plot-heavy dumpster fire of a chapter, but you'll notice there's a total chapter count now available, and I'll be updating much more quickly now that the bulk of that other stuff is done. ;) Happy Holidays!

“Hey, look, it’s Gloombert and the God-Shattering Ass!” Hilda exclaims, from around a mouthful of honeyed pastry. “Con_grats_ on the birthday sex.”

Ferdinand sputters incoherently, fingers clutching down on Hubert’s own, as they enter the War Room within the Duke’s Palace. Marianne swats Hilda on the arm. “Hilda. We talked about this.”

“Talked about what a screamer Ferdie is—”

“Hilda, if you are _quite_ finished.” Claude circles around the inlaid wooden table they’re all gathered around and scrubs his knuckles in Hilda’s hair, earning him a glower. “I’m sure our guests have more important things to get back to—”

Hilda coughs loudly, earning another glare from Marianne—

“—so let’s not waste their time _too_ much, right?” Claude turns to face Hubert and Ferdinand at last, his grin far too easy and practiced for Hubert’s liking. “So. Please. Have a seat. You’re our guests, after all.”

Hubert wrenches one of the chairs out for Ferdinand, who glances back at him, wide-eyed, a shy smile fluttering the edges of his lips, and damn if it doesn’t set off a similar flutter in Hubert’s chest. Because it isn’t pretending any longer, is it? Despite what a stubborn coward he’s been, Ferdinand wants him, wants _him_—the Hubert he’s only allowed himself to be around Ferdinand, and even then in only the smallest glimpses, like a flash of bare wrist beyond gloves.

Ferdinand wants him, and is kissing him, not out of the need for deception, but because he _wishes_ to, and then Hubert is thinking about all of the things he apparently wishes to do to Hubert, the things he _has_ done already—

And now Hubert is acutely aware he’s still standing over Ferdinand’s chair, like a lovesick buffoon, so he drops into his chair and forces a scowl to his face.

He’s having a harder time holding it there than he would like.

“It’s nice to see you both happy,” Marianne says, her eyes sparkling as she smiles at Hubert.

Lorenz, silent until now, looks Hubert over with a sneer to his lips. “Yes. How delightful.”

“Well, what’s not to be happy about?” Claude asks. “It’s been at _least_ two whole days since anyone tried to kill either of you, right?” He sighs. “Afraid that might be about to change.”

Hubert bolts up in his seat. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well. All of us, really.” Claude unfurls one of the rolled-up cylinders of paper stacked on one end of the table. “Adrestian troops are advancing on Derdriu. Based on current movements, we expect them to take up a position in the southwestern hills—here—by no later than the twenty-third, despite our advance guards.”

And just like that, it’s time for Hubert to play a role again. At least this one he’s far more familiar with—and far less terrified to play.

But Ferdinand speaks up before he can craft his web. “Ah. It looks like they are perhaps following the strategy I devised still, after all.” He frowns, studying the markings on the map. “Or, in any case, that’s what—”

“—That’s what they want us to think,” Claude finishes. “Which helps us a lot, and not at all.”

Ferdinand glances at Hubert, his expression soft, gently questioning. Flames, how Hubert wishes he could reach over now and cradle that gentle face in his hands, feel those tender lips tickling across his fingers. He doesn’t _want_ to deal with these exhausting games just now, layers upon layers of games and lies. All the lies he’s yet to tell. Last night he’d simply—surrendered, allowing Ferdinand to unlace everything he kept tightly cinched, every clenched jaw and curled fist he’d been holding for what felt like years. A breath he’d been holding in wait of an answer.

And now that he can breathe again, he wants to answer it over and over.

“Well,” Ferdinand says, that smile starting to return, “I suppose we could start by explaining the original plan, yes?”

Hubert blinks. The original plan. Oh, yes, the one that very much did _not_ involve falling for Ferdinand—falling into bed with him, falling so hard he forgot his entire purpose in being here. Which he currently seems to be doing, like a voids-damned imbecile.

“That’d be your area of expertise, love,” Hubert says—with an eerie jolt in his mind as that last word passes his lips. “Please, go ahead.”

“Macuil’s tits, I’m gonna hurl,” Hilda says, followed by a flurry of glares and jostling and what seems to be no small amount of Lorenz and Hilda kicking at each other under the table.

“Please, Ferdinand, ignore this uncultured lout.” Lorenz makes a dramatic hand flourish. “Continue.”

Ferdinand stands, hunching over the table slightly, and launches into a well-oiled explanation of the older siege strategy he’d drafted over the winter. This time, the shiver Ferdinand’s words send down Hubert’s back are for an altogether different reason. He knows the plan inside and out—hardly surprising, given the amount of work Hubert knows he’d put into it—but it’s the ease he shows in patiently clarifying every last detail and answering every last one of their new “allies’” inquiries that leaves Hubert unable to fully settle into his chair. They are—laughing over something now, even Hilda is smiling at Ferdinand; Marianne’s shoulders are relaxed, Claude’s expressions animated, and every last one of them perfectly at ease around this council table in the heart of the Duke’s Palace in Derdriu.

It is only when Lorenz’s violet gaze darts Hubert’s way with the briefest sneer before bouncing back to the discussion that Hubert truly feels as if he is present, and not merely watching and listening in secrecy, from the shadows.

The uneasiness grows, a stubborn weed taking hold.

“Well, Hubert?” Claude asks abruptly. “You got anything to add, anything you remember?”

Hubert takes a quick sip of air to collect himself. “I think Ferdie has it covered amply. Besides, I was far more involved in the secondary war of spycraft and subterfuge.”

“Yeah, guess you were, huh.” Claude rubs the stretch of beard along his jaw. “So what _were_ your Derdriu spies up to, last you heard?”

_You’re very funny, von Riegan,_ Hubert thinks. It was because Claude had successfully captured their palace spy that they’ve been thrust into the mess, after all. But he isn’t about to bring up that.

“Last I heard, my spy network had gone dark throughout Alliance lands. Granted, in those days my attention was increasingly elsewhere.” And here, he can’t resist a glance toward Ferdinand’s shapely rump where he bends over the strategy table. “I confess that, as our plans to depart the Empire started to take shape, I was not giving my duties the diligence they required.”

“Surprising,” Claude says. “I would have thought you, of all people, would have realized that your insights into those networks is maybe the most valuable thing you possess.” He nods knowingly toward Ferdinand. “Especially for a man knowing he would soon be in need of protection. For himself and his partner.”

Hubert’s upper lip curls back. “Well, it did not help that, with the professor’s return, Her Majesty increasingly turned control of such things over to the professor.”

“Ouch. That had to hurt,” Claude says, smirking.

Hubert would prefer not to dwell on just how easily a scowl comes to his face at that. “I believe the fact that we are sitting here with you now is ample proof of how much.”

“Well,” Claude says, exchanging a look with Hilda, “anything you can give us would be very welcome. We may have the intelligence advantage over the Imperial forces, thanks to you two, but our defenses are coming up short. Seeing as how we haven’t been out here trying to conquer the whole damn continent, and all.”

Ferdinand sucks in his breath, quiet, but still audible to Hubert. He reaches out and brushes his fingertips against Ferdinand’s thigh. “Her Majesty believes it is the only way to loosen the churches stranglehold on all the lands.”

“And what about the two of you? Do you agree with that assessment?”

Hubert doesn’t miss the wariness in Ferdinand’s expression as he looks back at him. Almost as though he, too, hopes for another way.

Flames, he’s been away from the Empire for too long. Believing in far too many impossible, impractical things.

“I suppose it’s always possible that there is another way,” he allows—if only to see the way Ferdinand’s face relaxes.

“Too bad she doesn’t see it that way,” Claude says. “So. Let’s figure out a strategy.”

* * *

That afternoon, they find themselves aboard a rented sailboat making their way out of the Derdriu Bay. It is a bright jewel of a day, the air clear and tangy on Hubert’s face as he steers them, but none of it serves to loosen the knots worked deep into his bones. Of what has happened. What is about to happen. The impossible span between the two.

Ferdinand has not said much to him since the morning’s meeting, keeping a strange sort of distance that stings in Hubert’s chest. Does he regret what they did the night before? It feels too massive, too vulnerable to even ask. As if the asking itself holds the danger of tipping the scales.

As Hubert works the single rig, wind slipping through his hair as he steers them further away from the city, a thousand questions churn through his mind.

_Do you want me?_

_Wouldl you want me still if you knew what I must do?_

_How can you possibly want me when all this is true?_

He rubs his hands raw on the rope as the boom arm swings wide into a fresh current of air. Ferdinand, seated at the bow, barely flinches as the boat tilts hard into the new breeze. Goodness, but he looks so at home here, sunny hair barely tamed by a ribbon, dancing whichever way the wind blows; earrings glittering like the waves; face bronzed and tilted skyward like the sunflower he is. Those devouring, devastating lips impossibly soft, parted ever so slightly like the invitation of a cracked door.

All Hubert wants—all he has ever wanted, at least, in recent memory—is for that brightness to consume him whole. Sear away the intricate web he has woven for himself. Crush every last bitter word from his mouth, leaving him scraped empty, silence his constant miserable refrain to do more, be more, hunt and attack and destroy in the name of forward movement. To be still under the onslaught that was Ferdinand’s affection, the way he was last night, is an impossible luxury.

But he cannot sustain Ferdinand’s interest with his own obliteration. He must be worth something to him, too. And whatever strange facet of himself has somehow managed to capture Ferdinand’s attention, he fears, will also soon be lost.

They hit a lull, the city only a glittering distant jewel, the nearest boats white specks on the horizon. After lowering and securing the sail, Hubert shifts across the boat toward Ferdinand.

“Darling . . .” he starts, but has no idea how to go on. It sounds so strange to call him that for real, and not for anyone else’s ears. What if Ferdinand doesn’t like it? What if Ferdinand doesn’t like any of this?

Ferdinand turns toward him, hair dancing from the wind. “Is it . . . ?”

“Safe?” Hubert asks, and Ferdinand nods. “Yes.”

“Oh, goddess.”

And then Ferdinand wrenches him into a powerful embrace, and all Hubert can do is hold tight to this ridiculous man who has claimed his entire heart.

“Is this all right?” Ferdinand asks, lips nuzzling at where Hubert’s shoulder meets his neck.

Hubert bites down on a sharp cry and digs his fingers into Ferdinand’s back. “Please, yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Ferdinand says, hands grazing down Hubert’s sides. He kisses at Hubert’s neck so tenderly that Hubert fears he may unravel from it. “I did not know . . . In case you regretted anything . . .”

“How could I possibly regret you?” Hubert pushes Ferdinand’s loose tendrils of hair back from his face and gazes into those bright, glassy eyes. “You are perfect. I am the one who falls short.” He winces.” Those terrible things I said to you in the past, I had no idea . . .”

“Of course they upset me. All this time, thinking that no matter what I did, I could never be enough for you . . .”

A sob old bubbles in Hubert’s throat. “Stop that. I’m an imbecile, you see.”

“No. It made sense. That you cannot be two things at once. I—I do not mean to ask that of you, to force you to choose—”

Hubert kisses his hair, his shoulder; rests his cheek against Ferdinand and tries, madly, not to think of anything at all.

“I can be both. Dedicated to my path and you at the same time.”

Or so Hubert hopes that that is true.

“Then this is . . . all right?” Ferdinand’s hand rakes through his hair, around his ear, down his chin, until his thumb is at Hubert’s pulse point, surely feeling how desperately it’s leaping at his touch. “It is all right for me to want you—genuinely—to be . . .” He bites his lower lip. “Enamored with you.”

Hubert nods, and closes his hand on Ferdinand’s wrist. Not to pull him away—but to keep him close. “I’m enamored with you. I don’t know how not to be.”

Ferdinand ducks his head, then nudges their mouths together. Even as the breeze dances a tendril of honey-colored hair between their lips, they kiss, slowly as if to go any faster might break them both.

“Yes,” Hubert breathes against him. “A thousand times yes.”

Ferdinand turns in Hubert’s arms and nestles back against him, letting Hubert wrap him up, pull him close. Hubert kisses his temple, his cheek, his neck as they both stare out at the cerulean sea sparkling around them. Hubert’s heart pounding against Ferdinand’s spine. Ferdinand’s chest rising and falling beneath Hubert’s arms. The breeze parting around them—a single form.

And if the world were to shrink down to this—two men, on a boat adrift in a vast and endless sea, then Hubert would be grateful for it.

“And—” Ferdinand starts, but then stops himself with a brisk shake of his head.

“Mm?” Hubert strokes his thumb against Ferdinand’s chest, teasing the hem of his V-neck blouse.

Ferdinand tilts his head to burrow one cheek against Hubert’s chest. “No. It isn’t important.”

Hubert swallows. “If it’s important to you . . .”

Ferdinand’s eyelashes flutter against Hubert’s collarbone as he squeezes his eyes shut. “I only . . . wondered what would become of us when we go home.” He pushes off of Hubert. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter right now.”

“Ferdie. Wait.”

Ferdinand sinks back down against him, trusting, far too trusting. Hubert’s lungs feel encased in lead. Could Ferdinand possibly still want him, after everything Hubert must do?

He’s already asked Ferdinand to forgive him for far too much. What comes next—he can’t even ask for that.

“I suppose we . . . will sort that out once we get there,” Hubert says, knowing damned well how pitiful it sounds.

But if he’s going to lose Ferdinand again—he isn’t ready to let go just yet.

“Mm.” Ferdinand falls silent. Too quiet for too long. But Hubert’s pulse is racing, a thousand words tripping over themselves in his head. Anything to cling to this while it lasts—

“Right now, I’m grateful for this chance to relearn you,” he finally coughs up.

He can’t see for sure, but he thinks Ferdinand might smile at that.

And then he can’t quite say who starts it, but somehow they’re kissing again, and if it feels a little too desperate, like swallowing down their last meal—he hopes it’s only in his head.

* * *

It’s nearly nightfall when they reach their destination, a craggy inlet further northwest up the coastline. They dock the sailboat at a rickety pier, then pick their way up a steep set of stairs carved into the cliffside to a torchlit cave. The air smells coppery and damp, and Hubert doesn’t like the shiver in it, like a warning on a mission he’d do well to heed.

“Just let me do the talking,” Hubert mutters under his breath, hand held out to help steady Ferdinand as they climb.

“You doubt my skills as a negotiator?”

He frowns. “These are not . . . a pleasant sort of people. They may not react well to your kind of negotiations.”

Ferdinand huffs, but says nothing more as they head toward the mouth of the chamber.

“Well. So glad you decided to join us.”

The band’s leader—a man named Vakh, according to Hubert’s contacts—stands up, looming over his lieutenants. His skin is so pale it has an ashen cast, even in the torchlight; his wiry gray beard is adorned with beaded braids. Dressed in well-worn leather armor, he looks more like a highway brigand than a Svengi mercenary commanding a fleet of longboats, but, Hubert supposes, a ruthless brigand is precisely what they need.

“Apologies. We had matters to attend to in Derdriu earlier,” Hubert says, as he assesses the two lieutenants: a broad, muscular Svengi woman with skin nearly as pale as Vakh’s, and a tall and slender Morfis woman with dark brown skin and silky black hair. The former is watching them with a cold gaze, but the latter barks with laughter as they duck into the chamber.

“These are the scary imperials we’re supposed to take orders from?” She shakes her head. “You look dressed for a romantic getaway, not an invasion.”

Ferdinand opens his mouth, nostrils flaring, but Hubert taps his forearm. “Then we’re playing our part well,” Hubert says. “The entire _point_ is for them not to see the invasion coming.”

The first woman, blonde hair wrenched back severely from her face, raises one eyebrow. “There’s a price on both your heads, little boys. I don’t advise crossing us.”

“The bounty is strictly for show.” Hubert sneers. “Unlike the substantial coffers Her Majesty is offering for your role in this plan.”

“Plan?” Ferdinand echoes beside him, but Hubert tries to ignore it, heat spreading on the back of his neck.

“So you keep telling us.” Vakh settles back into his seat and props both hands on the hilt of his sword as though it were a cane. “But we did receive the down payment from your agents, so . . . let’s hear it.”

Hubert folds his arms. “The Alliance is preparing for a land invasion. Their opinion of the Imperial Navy is . . . not high.”

Vakh and his lieutenants all snort at that. “For good reason,” Vakh says.

“Right now, troop movements are signaling they’ll reach the outskirts of Derdriu by the twenty-third, given the expected amount of resistance. The Alliance should therefore be shifting defenses southward no later than the twenty-first. Which is why you will strike that night.”

Ferdinand squeaks. “Hubert, that’s just a few days away—”

“The sooner, the better. My band tires of these warm waters.” Vakh eyes Ferdinand suspiciously. “Pretty fish, but not much substance to them.”

Ferdinand’s mouth pops open, so Hubert steps forward before he can formulate a retort. “The future prime minister Aegir holds the power to pour trade and support into Svengi, and do a damned good job of it, if you don’t cross him,” Hubert says sharply. “And I have no doubt his skill for destroying those whose support is not worth the cost. I hope you are considering your long-term relationship with the empire in all of this.”

Vakh works his jaw for a moment, then turns to the Svengi woman. “Bryn? You’ll handle the initial wave.” He looks to the Morfis woman. “Preethi, you’ll have the streets.”

“And the more you can flush the Alliance leadership into the Duke’s Palace, the better.” Hubert touches the coin purse at his belt. “I’ve made a thorough study of it, and von Aegir and I will be handling it personally.”

“Handling—” Ferdinand starts, but this time he stops himself. Shifts his weight at Hubert’s side. And, oh, Hubert can feel the indignancy radiating off of him like a furnace.

Hubert had not once thought himself capable of feeling shame. But Ferdinand makes him feel a great many things he would rather not.

“Night of the twenty-first, then,” Vakh confirms. “We’ll see you then, Imperials.”

Hubert tosses the purse to Vakh—yet another down payment—and all but shoves Ferdinand from the chamber.

* * *

“Mercenaries,” Ferdinand says finally, a good hour into their return voyage.

“Our navy is pathetic, it’s true. But we need the element of surprise.”

“We are bargaining with Svengi mercenaries now.”

“We bargain with whatever mercenaries we need to get the job done.” Hubert snaps the sail into a fresh current. “I will deal with any foul and rancid monstrosity I must to see Her Majesty’s plans through.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ferdinand says.

Hubert bites back a swear. Dark chambers glittering with unnatural light. Foul beings twisted and warped from years of reaching for blood they don’t deserve. “You don’t know the half of it, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand’s eyes glitter in the starlight; it’s too dark to read his expression, which, Hubert supposes, might be a mercy at this rate.

“They will hurt our friends.”

And there it is. Confirmation of everything Hubert has been dreading. He pulls the sail tight; it’s getting too dark to continue for the night, anyway, and they’re better off dropping anchor. A few tugs of rope and knots and they’re secure, the shoreline a looming figure in the distance, the night their only guard.

“_Your_ friends,” Hubert says pointedly, “can take care of themselves.”

“You do not know that.”

Hubert takes a deep breath; lets it out in a careful, measured fashion. “Perhaps you have forgotten the reason we are here in the first place, Ferdinand. It isn’t for masquerade balls and balloon rides and card games with von Riegan’s lieutenants—”

“And perhaps you are forgetting the larger purpose in our war!” Ferdinand cries. “We want stability, not this—chaos you are sowing. Safety and security for every person, and not just the privileged few.”

“A noble idea,” Hubert agrees. “One you are free to keep arguing for. Meanwhile, I’ll be doing the dark work, the _actual_ work that no one wants to acknowledge. That you would all rather forget. The only damned way to get anything done in this accursed world.”

Ferdinand is silent for a long moment; the only sound is the gentle slap of waves against the hull of the boat.

“Well. I am going to head into the cabin to get some rest,” Ferdinand says at last. “If you are done sucking your own cock out here, carrying the fate of the empire on your shoulders, you’re welcome to join me.”

He wrenches the hatch to belowdecks open and drops inside.

Hubert clenches his jaw. He’d known this would happen. Knew it, _saw_ it happening, and said nothing because he’d been too busy losing his accursed head over Ferdinand and his sunny face and silky hair and merry laugh and wondrous _everything_. The mercenaries are right—he’s nothing but a besotted tourist, when he should be the one with a lethal blade in the night, not the one getting them thrown at him.

Another matter that needs attending to, and that he is electing to ignore in favor of kissing every last freckle on those damned shoulders of Ferdinand’s.

He’s been away too long. He’s losing sight of what is _necessary_ for all of them to survive—and that means Ferdinand, too.

It is a way to defend Edelgard’s vision. To protect all of them. One needn’t be in conflict with the other. If Ferdinand could just _see_—

He sighs. Checks the anchor and knots one last time. Then drops down into the cabin on silent feet.

“I’m sorry,” Hubert murmurs, as he slides onto the narrow mattress, arms reaching out for Ferdinand.

Ferdinand sniffs and turns to face him, hands coming to Hubert’s face. “But what is it you are sorry for?”

“For not . . . making you party to my plans.”

Ferdinand nestles his head under Hubert’s chin. “That is not quite what I meant.”

He kisses the crown of Ferdinand’s head, breathing in his smell of salty breeze and lavender and the smoke from the torchlit cave. “We both want the same thing, ultimately. The empire victorious. The new order.” Hubert closes his arms around Ferdinand, thumbs grazing against muscled ribs. “There’s no reason to be at odds like this.”

“But how we do it is just as important as what we do.”

Hubert closes his eyes; savors the steady rise and fall of Ferdinand’s breath in his arms. “Very well. Then what is it that you recommend?”

“I . . . That’s just it, is it not? I don’t know.” Ferdinand groans. “Damn it all. You are right, we came here for this, I only wish—I wish there were another way.”

Hubert is aware, then, of a touch of dampness on his chest, and it pains him like any envenomed blade. “Ferdie, please don’t cry—”

“Stop. I do not wish to talk about it anymore.” Warm lips, then, follow the tears, and Hubert shivers despite himself, back arching. “Right now, all I want . . .”

And then Ferdinand is on top of him, and his weight is enough to smother Hubert’s doubts and fears. The war will return for them very soon. He’ll remember himself soon, Ferdinand will surely hate him soon—but this, this he wants. For himself. For Ferdinand.

“I love you,” he breathes, and means it—even if it’s far, far from what either of them needs.

Ferdinand answers with his mouth, his hands, and Hubert clings to him, limbs and nails and teeth—and maybe, if he holds tight enough, they’ll never have to leave.

* * *

They return the boat to the Deirdru harbor a few hours after sunrise. Hubert once more dreads the uneasy silence that wedges between them—wonders if it will always feel this way, as if they are fighting past an unbridgeable gap—but Ferdinand loops his arm around his waist and pulls them side by side, and Hubert does his best to relax into the touch as they weave through the Plaza of Starlight.

“Do not look now,” Ferdinand whispers in his ear, lips a pleasant tickle against Hubert’s skin, “but you may wish to wear a higher-collared shirt.”

Hubert feels his whole body go red as his tilts his head toward Ferdinand’s. “And why on earth would I want to hide that?”

Ferdinand just laughs, and steers them toward the market stalls, in search of breakfast.

They gather a meal of fresh flatbread and sliced sausages and roasted peppers and onions, then find a space on the lip of the Starlight Fountain to eat their meal in silence. The hawkers mill all around, shouting, bumping up against one another and the marketgoers, and more than once, Hubert has to throw a protective arm around both of them to prevent their food from getting knocked away.

“Lovely treats? Lovely treats for the gentlemen,” a woman’s voice calls, narrowing in on them, and Hubert gets ready to snap as a tray of scarves is shoved in his face.

“We are trying to eat, miss.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” The hawker’s voice turns unexpectedly sharp. “Thought you might be in need of a disguise. Hubie.”

Hubert’s heart slams against his ribs; he feels Ferdinand twist beside him to look, too. Slowly, a bite of bread lodged in his throat, he lifts his face at last:

To find himself looking into the narrowed green eyes of one Dorothea Arnault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** Running out of time.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New D&D fanart!!!!
> 
> [(Ch. 11) Hubert enjoys the view](https://twitter.com/BeaRdezF/status/1211297444027412480) by [@BeaRdezF](https://twitter.com/BeaRdezF)
> 
> (Slightly NSFW)[(Ch. 5) Hubert's intrusive bridle thoughts](https://twitter.com/SnakesAria/status/1196937465514352648) by [@SnakesAria](https://twitter.com/SnakesAria)

“You’re sure it isn’t poisoned?” Dorothea glares down at the tray of Almyran coffee Ferdinand sets in the center of their booth.

She’d agreed to meet them at the coffeehouse in the evening, which gave them time to bathe and show their faces in front of their guards, and indulge in a few lazy hours in bed, since the matter of Dorothea wasn’t one they could discuss back at the villa. All Ferdinand has to go off of concerning Hubert’s feelings on the issue are a few agonized looks and the added tension in his shoulders. Ferdinand had tried to soothe the latter away earlier, kneading his hands into wiry muscle and sharp bone as he sat on the backs of Hubert’s thighs. But it now seems to have returned.

Hubert narrows his eyes at Dorothea over the lip of his coffee cup. “I didn’t _poison_ you. Chloroform is perfectly safe, causing no internal damage—”

“Get over yourself, Hubie. You’re an asshole. You both are.” She turns her glare toward Ferdinand as he settles onto a cushion at Hubert’s side. “Hubie, I expect. But you, Ferdie . . .” She twists the cup in her hands. “I thought we were friends.”

Ferdinand hides his wince by curling against Hubert’s shoulder. Throughout the war, he’d been as close with her as most anyone, he supposes, aside from Hubert himself. At their weekly bruncheons in the village, they’d vented about the stress of war and their visions for the new Adrestia. He’d consoled her over her many disappointing outings with various knights and army lieutenants, and the resentment she couldn’t help feel at the professor, who’d captured Her Majesty’s attention the moment she returned. She’d even apologized for her previous rudeness to him, for goodness’s sake.

“I am deeply sorry,” Ferdinand says, knowing damned well it isn’t enough, but knowing, too, he can’t offer the apology she deserves. “Had it been safe to inform you of our plans, I would have. But it was better for you if you didn’t know.”

“Oh, right. You were _protecting_ me. Like the noblest noble you are.”

“That is not what I—”

Dorothea cuts him off with a sudden laugh. “You wanna know something? For the longest time I tried to tell myself it was all a big joke. It had to be fake, right? Goddess knows I’ve had my troubles with her, but Edie isn’t that kind of tyrant. And you two—hells.” She flicks her fingers in their direction. “I didn’t think either one of you would ever get your heads out of your asses about your feelings for each other.”

Hubert tenses under Ferdinand, so Ferdinand gives him a reassuring squeeze.

“Something had to be up, right? That’s what I thought. It was the only thing that made sense. But—”

She sinks back into the pillows, letting the silky drapery fold around their semi-private corner of the coffeehouse. And Ferdinand catches himself thinking—she looks in her element. Not on the battlefield, not tending to soldiers at the monastery or suffering through the attentions of another would-be suitor. Here, on her own, living outside of the war. What to do with that thought—that, he can’t fathom. But it strikes in him like a sudden melancholy chord. She deserves better than endless war.

Maybe they all deserve that.

“Anyway.” She lowers her gaze. “Seems pretty obvious to me you two really are all lovey-dovey. So there goes that theory, I guess.”

He wants to tell her the truth. The goddess knows she’s put up with his grousing about Hubert enough, and she’s cried on his shoulder much the same about her unreturned affections for Edelgard and Petra. He’s so tired of lying.

He’s tired of all this deceit.

“Miss Arnault.” Hubert’s hand rubs a small circle at Ferdinand’s back as he speaks, and Ferdinand relaxes, despite himself. “We appreciate your concern, but . . . what do you want from us? Surely you didn’t come all this way just to confirm Ferdinand and I are—” He swallows; four fingers press possessively into Ferdinand’s skin. “Courting.”

“Let’s call it a crisis of faith.” She smiles bitterly. “I’m no soldier. Everyone knows that. But Edie makes it so easy to follow her lead—she makes you want what she wants.”

Ferdinand can’t help but smile at that, though he tries to bury it quickly.

“And she was right to do what she did—I still believe that. The Church’s hold on everything, it _was_ too powerful. Everyone tying themselves in knots over their crests and bloodlines.”

Hubert murmurs agreement, and Ferdinand curls closer against him.

“We’re better off without it,” Dorothea says. “But now we’re going after the Leicester Alliance, when they’ve never been a fan of the old order anyway, and for what? They’re just—people.”

“They still give safe harbor to the Eastern Church,” Hubert says, then adds—unconvincingly, Ferdinand thinks—“is what Edelgard would argue.”

“True. But the Church of Seiros isn’t the whole of the Alliance. I dunno.” She shakes her head; sips some more coffee. “I guess I’ve just got more immediate concerns than worrying about what people on the other side of the continent believe.”

“The Church of Seiros is a poisonous weed, and its roots run deep,” Hubert says. His voice is low, but it resonates, echoing in Ferdinand’s skull. “If you do not rip out every last inch of it, it will grow back, tainting everything around it.”

Dorothea lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I guess so. Still seems like Edie wants to use a hammer when a knife would do.”

Oh, and Ferdinand can _feel_ it, the instinct itching under Hubert’s skin, even now, to defend his lady. And why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t they tell Dorothea the truth, rather than let her think them deserters, abandoning their empire at the peak of its need? He glances toward Hubert, whose face is straining to stay neutral.

Dorothea would understand. She would forgive them. But as to whether she’d help them—the more she speaks, the less likely that seems.

“And now that I see how Edie would treat the two of you, of all people—her dearest friend and her closest adviser, her retainer and her general—then it doesn’t give me much hope for the rest of us. Who _will_ she listen to?”

Hubert coughs, hacking up his coffee. “I—she—Well. Ferdinand and I _did_ betray her trust and disobey her direct order,” he says flatly.

“Yeah, but it was stupid order. It doesn’t even make _sense_. She used to tell me all the time how much she wished you two jackasses would get over yourselves and kiss already, so why the change of heart?”

Now it’s Ferdinand’s turn to choke on his coffee; Hubert turns his head away, shame-faced.

“Maybe it’s the professor’s influence. Goddess knows the way Byleth’s changed the tide of the war—maybe Edie thinks her brand of ruthlessness is something she wants for herself. But I don’t wanna be ruthless. I don’t wanna wage war for war’s sake. I don’t wanna keep narrowing my definition of ‘friend’ until everyone becomes a foe.”

“That’s not what Her Majesty means—I mean.” Hubert winces. “Yes, Ferdinand and I have our _personal_ grievances, but there’s no reason for you to hold a grudge.”

“It’s _exactly_ the reason I should hold a grudge. So you know what? I’m done.” Dorothea exhales; glances upward, the dim light catching in her wide eyes. “I don’t want to fight anymore. Maybe she can see it in terms of countries and factions and lofty goals, but all I can see are the people getting crushed under the wagon wheels of war. There was a time I thought she saw that, too. But now, I’m not so sure.”

“Well. Ultimately we are—on—your—side on this matter,” Hubert says, through clenched teeth. “But I don’t know what you expect Ferdinand and I to do about it.”

“Hubert . . .” Ferdinand murmurs.

Hubert flinches before turning toward him. His face is even paler than usual; the tension around his eyes is so thick. Ferdinand can’t help but to brush back his bangs, press a warm hand to a cold cheek. Surely Hubert is tired of pretending, too. Surely he’s tired of this game, same as Ferdinand. They have each other. They can trust Dorothea with the truth.

And maybe—just maybe—they needn’t wage a full-blown war—

Hubert closes his eyes with a heavy sigh and tilts his head to kiss Ferdinand’s hand. “Your concern is appreciated, Miss Arnault.” Hubert turns back toward her. “But there’s nothing more to be done for it.”

“Great. Thanks _so_ much.” She kicks back on her cushion, arms folding under her chest. “The least you could do is put in a good word for me with the Alliance, or something.”

“I am sure we can accommodate that—” Ferdinand starts, but Hubert cuts him off.

“In time. It isn’t the right moment. But if you can lay low in the Derdriu for a while, we may be able to help.”

Ferdinand frowns. What is Hubert scheming now?

“Until then, there is perhaps . . . one matter you could assist us with.” Hubert hunches forward, and Ferdinand and Dorothea follow suit. “We were recently targeted by an assassin. Likely an Adrestian. You wouldn’t happen to know who it might have been?”

Dorothea barks with laughter. “You’re shitting me, right? _Everyone_ wants you dead. Well.” She smiles sadly. “Everyone who’s still on Edie’s side, anyway.”

Ferdinand sucks in his breath, in spite of himself. “What do you mean?”

“Petra would be here with me right now if she wasn’t obligated to stay. For her family.” Dorothea laughs; shakes her head. “She wanted me to see if I couldn’t find another way. And then Bernadetta—well, she’s stepped up as general, but you can tell the whole ordeal shook her up pretty bad. So Ladislava’s been butting her nose in more and more, trying to subsume the strike force under the army’s command.”

“Ladislava?” Hubert asks.

“Oh, yeah. You should’ve heard all the choice words she had for the two of you when you left.” Dorothea smiles bitterly. “I couldn’t really argue with her at the time. You were both huge jerks about it.”

“But do you really think she could have ordered our assassination?” Ferdinand asks.

Dorothea just stares at him, disbelieving. “You’re defectors. It’s pretty much standard operating procedure, right?”

“Yes, but—”

Hubert quiets him with a firm squeeze to the hand. “Yes, of course. I would have advised Her Majesty to do the same, were it someone else.”

“And I imagine they’ll come for me next,” Dorothea says, shoulders falling. “I don’t suppose you two could put in a good word for me with Claude any sooner?”

“Erm. We shall see what we can do.” Hubert frowns. “In the meantime, I advise you to stay out of sight.”

“Sure. Yeah. Same as I always do.” She catches Ferdinand’s eye, and if her stare was poison, his organs would be shriveling up right now. “At least here, I’ve got no one to disappoint.”

* * *

“And sold! For 500,000 gold.” The auctioneer bangs down his gavel, and the Morfis horse breeders rally up their steeds to usher them out of the arena, kicking up the stench of soiled sawdust into the vast tent.

It is the morning of the twentieth, one day before the Srengi mercenaries are scheduled to arrive, and the Imperial invasion will begin. One day and night before he’s subsumed in war once more, and Ferdinand is spending it at the Derdriu fairgrounds, sweltering in the horse tents with his oldest friend. Small wonder he can barely keep his breakfast down.

Lorenz turns to Ferdinand, fanning himself delicately with his auction paddle. “Well! That was a lively one.”

Ferdinand shifts his weight, hands wringing together. “Overpriced, if you ask me.”

“Well, that is why I asked you here, after all.” Lorenz strolls down the aisle between stalls of hores, stepping lightly through the sawdust and fresh hay. “I don’t know what I would do without your keen eye to assist me in rebuilding the Gloucester stables.”

Ferdinand squeezes out a shrill laugh. “Nonsense! I am sure you can manage it just fine on your own.”

“Thankfully, I no longer have to, however, with you around.” Lorenz stops before a selection of densely-muscled white Dagda stallions and tilts his head, appraising. “Whatever else this war brings us, I am grateful for your friendship, and that we need not fight each other after all.”

Ferdinand’s throat burns with bile. “Oh,” he says, “you do not want this breed for your purposes.” He shakes his head at the preening, but notoriously aggressive stock. “Perhaps something with Almyran lineage to pull you out of your slump. It seems to me your father put too much stock in the flashy ones, and not enough in horses that will actually work with you.”

Lorenz titters to himself and resumes his stroll. “We are still speaking of horses?”

Ferdinand tips his head in concession, smiling in spite himself. And, oh, does even the act of smiling feel like a betrayal, a knife Lorenz doesn’t know he’s twisting.

“I do wonder,” he says, straining to circle the conversation back around, “if there might be another outcome we are overlooking.”

Lorenz frowns at an all-black gelding with sly eyes, and Ferdinand joins him, admiring it, before moving to the next stall: a vendor of harnesses and bridles. “Your former master intends to see us obliterated. There is no other outcome that will satisfy her, save that of one side victorious over the other.”

Ferdinand runs his fingers over a particularly dark leather set of reins. Had it really been the start of this same month that he sat with Hubert, with nothing more on his mind than dropping hints about birthday gifts and perhaps catching Hubert’s eye once more? But no, that is not correct, either. They have always been barreling toward this battle. The only difference is the particularly cruel brand of subterfuge they are using to pave the way for it.

They were always meant to wage this battle. He’d always known this day would come. But saying farewell like this, with a smile on his face and a poisoned dagger behind his back, is too intimate, too cruel to bear. And now wonders why this battle in particular should make a difference. Just because he can put a name to the faces of those they mean to defeat? It winds like rope around his throat to even contemplate.

Ferdinand motions toward the merchant and counts out coins for the set of reins. Worrying about his damned horse at a time like this. “Her Majesty seeks to obliterate the Church of Seiros in the Alliance lands, not the Alliance itself. Surely there is something in that that can be used.”

Lorenz snorts indelicately. “Well, Claude is no fan of the Church, far less the hierarchy they bring with them. But I don’t see her striding forward to speak calmly on the matter. She can claim she only wants to stop the Church all she wants, but all she really wants is power.”

“That is perhaps an exaggeration—”

“She sees us as one and the same,” Lorenz says. “Perpetrators of the old way. Defiant where she demands fealty. And why should the Church not be there for those who follow it? No, I think your former lady wants to seize ever more power, above all else, and the Church is merely a convenient scapegoat. Whether she even sees that’s what she’s doing or not, that is all war can ever truly be about.” His violet eyes flash with something unfamiliar. “My father was much the same.”

“That is a terribly grim view of things,” Ferdinand says, tucking the leather reins into his satchel.

“War is grim, my friend. But like death, either we go to meet it, or it comes for us. It is simply the way of things.”

Finally, they reach the stalls of the Almyran horse breeders. Ferdinand loses himself in the process of explaining proper evaluation techniques to his friend: assessing musculature, gaits, temperaments, and more. A sturdy, determined breed of horse, sure to change up the inbred Gloucester stock his friend currently owns.

Should any of them live long enough to see it through.

“Thank you, friend.” Lorenz beams at him once he settles his tab, and arranges for delivery of the new breeding mares. “I look forward to seeing this project through.”

“I welcome the challenge,” Ferdinand says.

It is the way of things, Ferdinand reminds himself. He only wishes it does not have to be.

* * *

Ferdinand doesn’t know how to feel about the act of cooking dinner with Hubert in the villa. They’ve prepared meals together before—grudgingly, in fact, when they were students at the Academy—but everything is different now, so momentous, so wonderful and yet bittersweet.

He wants to reach out and pull Hubert to him as he watches him hunched over the stove. He wants this moment to linger, for everything to slow down, a waltz melting into a slow lullaby. Tomorrow night, the Srengi raiders will come, and this all will end—and he doesn’t know what awaits them on the other side.

But they can’t speak of that. They can’t speak of anything that hints this tiny little bubble of bliss is soon to pop. Maybe this flavor of pretending is the cruelest of all—to know that it is real, but not know for how long.

So he wraps his arms around Hubert’s waist, standing behind him, and buries his face between wiry shoulder blades.

Hubert makes a pleased humming noise and his shoulders instantly slacken, though he continues to stir the skillet of vegetables he’s searing. “Hello, my sunshine.”

_Sunshine._ Ferdinand shivers. Will Hubert still call him that after tomorrow night?

“How was your time at the horse market?” Hubert gives the skillet another brisk shake, then turns, pulling Ferdinand to his chest. “Did you find Lorenz some acceptable stock?”

Ferdinand nods, his cheek now against the cool, smooth expanse of Hubert’s chest where his V-neck has exposed it. “It made me think of—”

Ferdinand stops himself, but Hubert reaches beneath his chin to tilt his face upward. Goddess, how he’ll never tire of that expression Hubert’s wearing—his brow drawn up toward the center, his lips trembling with a smile, his eyes soft in a way they rarely are. Yet the longer Hubert looks at him, the more his smile fades.

“Made you think of what, darling?”

Ferdinand swallows; ducks his head back down. “—Of that horse farm I want to have someday. You and I.”

Hubert’s grip on him loosens. “Oh.” He’s only silent a moment, but it’s a painful one. “Well. I—I leave the details in your capable hands.”

The skillet hisses behind them, and Ferdinand shuffles back from Hubert’s grasp. Hubert turns away to tend to their food once more, and Ferdinand busies himself hunting for plates, cutlery.

The wise thing would be to let it drop. The safe thing is to accept what the next few days will bring; that this blissful holiday must come to the end, and the war will return for them again. They will be hailed for their accomplishments. Heroes of the empire. And Hubert will be by his side, no longer afraid.

It ought to be enough.

“Lorenz expressed interest, in fact, in supporting us in this endeavor,” Ferdinand says, an edge of challenge in his tone. “He thinks Marianne, too, would be interested in helping. If we can end this war swiftly and bloodlessly, we could be free to do so very soon.”

“Did they now.” Hubert scrapes the spoon across the skillet. “Well, would that it could end so bloodlessly, but I don’t intend to hold my breath.”

“Stranger things have happened. We are here, are we not?” Ferdinand forces a laugh. “P-perhaps our special insight into the matter could be useful in finding—”

Hubert slams down the plate of seared fish, vegetables, and a citrusy yogurt sauce in front of Ferdinand, his face tight as a drumhead. “Or maybe we should allow events to unfold as they will. Since it is not our war any longer, as you have made clear. While you plan of running off to your—your horse farm.”

Ferdinand’s chest puffs up as he takes a deep breath. He wants to scream, he wants to break. Part of him just wants to see what Hubert would do if he _did_ break their cover, right here where the Alliance is listening. If Hubert must twist the knife in his gut—he wants to return the favor.

But he says nothing, and shovels mouthfuls of what is probably perfectly delicious fish down his throat.

They chew in silence for a bit, and none of it is even crunchy enough for him to chew obnoxiously, and there’s a full glass of Derdriu’s finest wine before him but he can’t bring himself to take even a sip. He can’t look at Hubert save for watching those long-fingered, cunning hands skewer his fish and slash through the vegetables, and think of all the dark deeds those hands carry out, things far more gruesome and brutal than leaving their Alliance friends to the whims of war.

Those fingers that so tenderly stroke his face at night, bury in his hair, cradle his head. Those cold hands Ferdinand likes to warm in his own. He’s never before begrudged Hubert the violence he does, the darkness he bears in service to their goals.

But war should be a last resort. A failure of imagination.

Why are they here, if not to find new ways of achieving their goals?

“Ferdie,” Hubert ventures, stretching those long fingers across the table for him. Ferdinand doesn’t dare glance up at his face. His own hand twitches where he’s tucked it in his lap. But he can’t keep pushing away their future, trying to build a nest in the heart of right now all for the sake of indulging in this man he’s always wanted, however briefly.

“I think I’ve eaten my fill.” Ferdinand shoves his plate away. “I am going for a walk.”

Hubert hurriedly pushes to his feet. “I’ll join you. If—if you like.”

Ferdinand closes his eyes, but as always, his resolve crumbles around Hubert. “Suit yourself.”

* * *

At the top of their neighborhood’s hill is a complex of ruins, something older than the Alliance and Faerghus, broken columns and crumbling walls and wind whispering through battered stone. Ferdinand finds a staircase to nowhere beside a window looking out at the sea, and slumps against the wall, waiting for Hubert to approach.

But Hubert stands at a distance, hands by his side, head bowed. “Ferdinand,” he says, the breeze threatening to rip the word away.

Ferdinand exhales. “Come here, you.”

Hubert does so, and settles onto the steps below Ferdinand, leaning against one of Ferdinand’s thighs.

Ferdinand cards his fingers through Hubert’s hair as he tries to gather his words. “I do not . . .” He swallows, but there’s no point in drawing this out. Now, at least, they can speak frankly. “I do not want anyone else to die. This war has taken enough lives, I think.”

“Dorothea isn’t a soldier. She doesn’t understand what it costs to protect Her Majesty’s vision.”

“I am not saying this because of Dorothea.” Ferdinand sighs; his finger curl forward until he’s absently scratching at Hubert’s scalp. “_I_ do not want to kill needlessly.”

Hubert grimaces. “Did you forget that we’re on a _mission_, Ferdinand? I realize that I’ve allowed my own . . . desires . . . to complicate things, but we’re here to accomplish a task.” He wraps his arm around Ferdinand’s calf. “To suggest otherwise is treasonous.”

“_Treasonous?_” Ferdinand cries. “Are you accusing me of—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. Trust me.” Hubert snorts. “You’d know if I were.”

“How very comforting.” Ferdinand’s grip on his hair tightens. His hair looks so inky in the night; he has an unpleasant image of Hubert lost in battle, his dark armor and hair concealing the extent of his wounds. “My duty is to advise Her Majesty. I would be a poor adviser if I did not raise my concerns.”

“And Her Majesty and I thank you for it. But we have our orders.” Hubert’s hand falls away from his calf. “We are here to facilitate an invasion.”

Ferdinand’s face is burning—from fury, now. A fury he’s too long swallowed. “No. We are here to win her war. Stop being so goddess-damned stubborn and accept that there’s another way—”

“The only way to win this war is by force, Ferdinand. Not because of her. Because of the Alliance. You’ve heard it from their leadership themselves, you’ve seen their fury. They see her as a threat. Dangerous. A villain to be quelled.” Hubert’s face contorts, the moonlight throwing strange shadows across it. “We can’t reason with them, whatever you might think. They are ready to defeat us on the battlefield, not at the negotiating table.”

“Only because we have not tried! I know you are not opposed to finding new ways to achieve Edelgard’s aims, ones she has not considered. If only—”

“What do you think my spies in the Duke’s Palace were doing in the first place?” Hubert cries. “They were looking for weaknesses. Opportunities. But we know what Claude thinks of Edelgard, of our war. Of us. This _is _the only option we have left.”

“You do not know that. Because you will not even try.” Ferdinand lets go of his hair with a snarl. “You have spent this entire mission looking for ways to stab them in the back when you will not even look them in the eye and see all the ways we can work together.”

Hubert twists around to glower at him. “_We?_ You do remember that your loyalty is to Adrestia?”

“I know perfectly well where my loyalty lies. Unlike you.” Ferdinand shakes his head. His whole body feels tight, much too tight. “You are so—so damned blinded by your loyalty to her, so stubbornly devoted to these plans you perfected over years that you won’t budge, you won’t change, you won’t even see how your actions are doing the _opposite_ of what it is you claim to want.”

“It’s us or them stabbing the other in the back, and I for one don’t intend—”

But Ferdinand’s too fired now, Hubert’s every word stoking the embers he’s kept smoldering this whole time. He’s tired of biting his tongue, of trying to smother his discomfort and hiding his real thoughts for the eavesdropping sigils, of letting Hubert win for appearances’ sake.

“No, you do not intend to ever let yourself be weak for even a moment, do you? To ever admit you might possibly have made a mistake. You’ll deny yourself any thought, any want just to stick to some stupid lofty ideal. And how very like you that is, dammit. No compromise, no accepting fault. Always choosing the path of blood. Goddess, I hate you sometimes, you self-righteous, bloodthirsty, vengeful—”

Hubert’s flinch is a physical thing—it’s Hubert’s face that scrunches up, but Ferdinand feels it like a punch to the gut. Dense. Bruising. Aching in his ribs, his chest.

Slowly, Hubert’s face unwinds, his eyes downcast and his expression weary.

“You know who I am. You’ve always known who I am.” Hubert’s voice wavers. “I’ve never claimed to be otherwise.”

Ferdinand drags a hand down the side of his face. “I didn’t mean that—”

“But you did.” Hubert stands. At the bottom of the steps, he looks so much smaller than before. Shoulders drawn forward like a young boy bracing for a scolding. “You want me to give up everything I’ve worked for to ease your conscience, when the very people you want to save are more than happy to slit all our throats.”

“They would not—”

“Some might be better at hiding it than others. But you’ve seen Hilda’s contempt. Claude’s distrust. Their own willingness to see our fellow imperials slain. This isn’t like our schooldays.” Hubert shakes his head. “You want me to go against my instincts and my loyalties.”

“Yes! You could at least try—”

“But those are who I am.” The words crumble at the ends. He laughs to himself, bitter and dry. “If I had nothing else, I’d still have that.”

“Dammit.” Ferdinand stands, reaches for him—but Hubert winces again. Instinctive. Like a long-ago hardened defensive mechanism. “I didn’t mean—”

“I—I thought you cared for me because of that. Not in spite of it.” And is it only starlight, or is there a glimmer in Hubert’s eyes—“But I suppose I was only fooling myself.”

“Hubert, please. Wait.”

But Hubert’s already turning from him, head tilted skyward. Beseeching, almost, though Ferdinand knows better. Then he shakes his head—and disappears back into the ruins, leaving Ferdinand alone with his own hot-headed shame.

* * *

Ferdinand waits before returning to the villa, running a dozen apologies through his head and discarding them all. Maybe because he can’t apologize—not in the way Hubert wants, Hubert needs. He won’t be sorry for wanting an end to the endless war. It’s been five years; Adrestia has already been reforged. He shouldn’t feel sorry for being content with that.

It’s only that—he’d wanted Hubert to choose him. When, in Hubert’s mind, siding with Ferdinand should never have meant having to choose.

Well. He supposes it’s too late for anything to be done about it now. Tonight is their last night of the mission, tomorrow their last day of pretend—and then the Srengi mercenaries will come, and the invasion will launch in earnest. Their last true night in this fairytale land they’ve built for themselves, and he’s just ruined it all, insulting Hubert for all the things he thought he loved about him. All the things he thought . . .

Ferdinand closes the door to the villa with a sigh, too heartbroken for tears.

Hubert is curled up on the leather divan in the villa’s parlor, blanketless, pillowless, his lanky form squished impossibly small as if in sleep, he were trying to disappear. Ferdinand watches him for a long moment, and a soft whimper escapes him—the sound of a scared little boy running from unknown terrors. The sound of someone whose trust is hard-won.

He considers spreading a blanket out over him, but it feels too intrusive, too personal, and he’s no longer sure he has that right, so he heads upstairs instead.

* * *

Ferdinand awakes to the dull clang of bells.

He blinks a few times, and he’s back at the Imperial Palace, the tolling of the Imperial Cathedral calling all of Seiros’s faithful to worship. Then he blinks again, and it’s only the smoky darkness of their bedroom in the Derdriu villa, night still heavy beyond the windows.

Smoky. Ferdinand sniffs the air. The smoke of a nearby fire.

He lurches to his side to wake Hubert, before last night’s argument blooms like an unwelcome weed in his thoughts. But then he hears shouting—shouts ringing through the streets, through the villa. Inside the villa.

From the first floor.

From the hall outside the bedroom, now.

Ferdinand dives for the dagger he knows Hubert keeps under the mattress and pulls it free as the door to the bedroom bangs open. Several figures file in, their leather and fur armor, pale skin, and braided hair or beards marking them as Srengi—and at their fore is Bryn, one of the mercenary lieutenants, her blonde mane silver in the night.

“Hello, little imperial.” She bares her teeth at him, then jerks her head toward the soldiers with her, who swarm toward the bed. Ferdinand drops the knife—even he knows better than to try to fight his way through this. Whatever this may be.

“You are early,” Ferdinand spits at her, as the mercenaries wrench his arms behind his back.

“Early? Nah.” She chucks her hand under his chin. “We just got a better offer, is all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** Hunted.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just . . . *flings this giant brick of Plot through your window at night* Just take it here--

As terrible as the days following the Ethereal Moon Ball had been, the days following Her Majesty’s coronation and the launch of their military campaign had been worse still—at least as far as dealing with Ferdinand went. He should have been ebullient, seeing years of planning at last bear fruit, but every time he glanced at the boy who thought he deserved to be—if nothing else—prime minister, all he saw was fresh wound.

But he’d made his peace with his purpose, with his need for focus and certainty in every step he took toward their grand plans. He didn’t have time for distractions, and Ferdinand was distracting, indeed. If he let himself think on Ferdinand too long, on his feelings toward him, then he would think too much about the _why_ they fought, when now was the time for focusing on the _how_. It did him no good to yearn for a crest-bearing heir of a noble house when it was that very order of nobility, that very hierarchy of cruelty embedded in one’s blood, that had to be torn down.

And so it became easier to pretend, and easier still, until time spent around Ferdinand was no worse than the ache of a bad knee when the rains came. And it ached—it throbbed—but he could no more change it than he could the weather.

It was just another burden he had to bear.

Had it been a mistake to succumb, after all these years? He wants to believe not. Maybe the only thing that had kept the ache persisting was the hope that maybe someday he could act on it. But wishing and hoping Ferdinand might wait for him, thinking he might feel even an ounce of what Hubert felt—it had been too much. Every day he spent realizing all the ways they complimented one another, every night he spent dreaming of a brush of lips, a gloved hand curled beneath a chin, every time he found himself stunned to see all the hidden depths to Ferdinand he never could have imagined lurked behind that sunny façade—it was all in Hubert’s head, in his heart, in his blood. It wasn’t something they shared.

Even now, Ferdinand surely regrets it, when it’s led them both to—this.

_Another way,_ Ferdinand claimed to want. _Another way._ Can there ever be another way for them?

He dreams of a Fódlan united under the imperial banner, a banner of freedom from the tyranny of Seiros and the system of crests. And he dreams of that soft smile Ferdinand offered him—the one that saw past the blood and darkness that smeared him as he ensured that banner could fly—and of Ferdinand’s hand reaching for his own. He once dreamed they could be the same world. But now—he cannot say.

* * *

Hubert bolts awake at the first clang of alarm bells. He rolls to his side, reaching for Ferdinand to shake him awake—before remembering he’d slept curled up on the villa couch. The couch. As the alarms continue to toll, the events of last night all clatter around in his head.

Their argument. Ferdinand’s insults, a thousand cruel jabs made all the crueler for the truth envenoming them. His stubbornness, his determination, his willingness to choose the path of blood—all things he thought Ferdinand accepted about him, and yet suddenly threw in his face. And then, like an imbecile, like a soft—_fool_—Hubert had slept downstairs, lonely and wounded, so distracted and tormented with thoughts of their argument that he had none of his usual precautions at hand.

No knives, no poisons, no emergency sigils painted carefully on the insides of shirt cuffs, or soles of boots. He has nothing but the trousers and blouse he fell asleep in, and his boots—normal boots, loud boots—lined up neatly at the couch’s end.

Hubert grabs the boots, tucks them under one arm, and slinks toward the villa’s side window for a better look.

No sooner does he find a good angle for a vantage point, though, does he hear the clang of boots at the villa’s front and back doors. He drops to the floor and melts into the shadows of the curtains. Ferdinand—he has to get to Ferdinand. Is he even back from the ruins? Does he ever mean to come back? A thread of grief stitches through his cold determination, his shadow’s instincts. But it doesn’t matter. If Ferdinand’s in danger—

Hubert slithers out the window just as dark figures spill into the villa’s parlor.

“Two of them. Check the bedrooms.”

Hubert knows the gruff tone of the commander immediately. One of Vakh’s lieutenants—the Srengi woman, Bryn. His eyes narrow. But she has at least five other mercenaries with her, and he’s completely unarmed, like the idiot he is.

If he can get to the bedroom before they can—

He scales the trellis running the height of the villa, his movements light and silent despite his height. An olive tree grants him something of a shield from the street, but he has no doubt Bryn’s brought more to watch the exterior. There’s a stench of smoke on the air, but despite the clanging alarm bells in the distance, there’s none of the chaotic sounds of battle in the streets he would have expected from a full-scale invasion.

But there’s no time to examine that further. He has to get to Ferdinand. He reaches the second-floor balcony and steps out onto its railing—

Then flattens back against the trellis. _Shit._ They’re already dragging Ferdinand from bed. Hubert’s heart wrenches at the sight of him, gold skin transfigured in the moonlight, silky hair rumpled and wavy. From habit, Hubert reaches for a weapon, but there’s none. He’s gone so soft, so weak, so defenseless—

“—Looks like we got a better offer,” Bryn is telling Ferdinand. Then, to her mercenaries—“Tie him up. And look for his boyfriend. He’s the one you have to watch out for.”

“He—he isn’t here,” Ferdinand blurts.

Hubert winces and presses his face against the trellis. _Dammit, Ferdinand, don’t do this—Let me help—_

“We had an argument last night. At the ruins at the top of the hill. He never came home.”

Bryn snorts in his face. “Sure, kid.” She turns toward her mercenaries. “Tear the villa apart. He can’t have gotten far. And be on your guard—he’ll be wanting this one back.”

“I—I’m afraid you are mistaken.” Ferdinand’s voice wavers. “It was only an act. Knowing him, that slippery snake, he is probably halfway back to the Imperial front by now.”

_Dammit, Ferdinand._ Whether he believes that, or is trying to send Hubert a message—either way, it’s nothing Hubert wants to hear.

But Ferdinand has one thing right: they’re too outnumbered for a fair fight against the mercenaries just now. They need a way to even the odds.

And so, slippery snake that he is, Hubert slithers off into the night: to gather what knowledge he can, and wait for his chance.

* * *

The first whispers of dawn bring little clarity. Derdriu is indeed filling up with Srengi mercenaries, their longboats clogging the harbors, their dinghies flooding the canals, and their carts overrunning the streets. But far from an invading force—the sort they’d been _hired_ to be, with hard-won Imperial gold—they look like a supplementary defense force instead.

Hubert slips past a makeshift encampment in the Plaza of Starlight as he prowls toward the metalworker’s atelier where he’d bought earrings for Ferdinand, what feels like a lifetime ago. The Alliance guards are huddled around a bonfire with the mercenaries, exchanging laughs, admiring their runework sword hilts and leather tack.

Von Riegan’s work, then. It must be. Fucking bastard. He couldn’t just hold him and Ferdinand for ransom. He had to snatch their own mercenaries out from under them.

And Her Majesty has no idea she’s marching straight into a trap.

Hubert slinks down the alleyway, watery with gray dawn light, and passes the pastry shop. Its sugary miasma is unbearable now, treacly with all the treats he shared with Ferdinand and the Alliance liars—Lysithea and Ignatz and Lorenz, playing cards and gossiping to their faces while they conspired against them all the while. They must have all known—hadn’t they? Had this been the plan from the moment they scooped him and Ferdinand up in Gloucester’s woods?

He reaches the doorway to the metalworker’s atelier—but after a hasty glance in the window, drops away.

Srengi mercenaries are ripping the shop apart, display cases and jewelry and iron buckles and more scattering every which way. The shopkeeper is shouting at them, but they’re pressing onward. As if they know exactly what they’re looking for.

Hubert swears under his breath. So Claude knew about this contact, too? And now Hubert is completely cut off—his only intelligence contact with the Empire, now compromised. No way left to warn her Majesty that she’s marching straight into a trap.

Unless he flees the city himself somehow. But that would mean leaving Ferdinand to whatever fate the Srengi and the Alliance have in store for him. Ransom, at first, most likely. A bargaining chip. But once the battle begins and his usefulness is gone—

With a snarl, Hubert pushes away from the window and slinks down the far end of the alleyway, toward the quays. He has to warn his lady. But he can’t leave Ferdinand behind. No matter how heartbroken Hubert is now, Ferdinand deserves better than being held at knife point, wondering whether his empire will ever come for him, wondering if Hubert will ever choose him for once, or if Hubert is exactly who he said he was, after all—

Hubert stops at the water’s edge, dawn’s first sparkle on its choppy surface. Hubert’s reflection is a dark, baleful glare. Unloved and unlovable. Loyal, yet also not—

And here he’d hoped that loving Ferdinand might mean not having to choose, after all.

He stops pacing abruptly, a pebble skittering over the edge, shattering his reflection.

Or maybe it doesn’t after all.

* * *

Hubert detests working in daylight, and the height of morning hours are worse still, everyone awake and restored and hopeful that their days might yet bring them good. Derdrian streets are no less busy for the air of trepidation hanging heavy over the mercenaries’ arrival; the merchants and workers give them a wide berth as the past along the streets, but the mercenaries pay them no notice for now.

Hubert brushes his bangs back and slicks them into place with a bit of spit. He keeps a light smile lodged firmly on his face, and tries not to think too painfully on Ferdinand teasing him about it not so long ago, how ghastly and foreign he looked when he smiled. Three weeks—has it really only been three weeks since this all began? He changes his gait, hunching and shuffling rather than striding with purpose, and buys a brightly-patterned sash at the first market stall he sees, tying it around his waist to draw the eye from his face. It’s as far from the feared imperial minister as he dares to hope that he can get.

The tenement buildings in this part of town of are crammed closer together and much plainer than in the other parts of Derdriu they’ve visited thus far, but still well-maintained, tidy and peaceful. Nothing like the dark corners of Enbarr he must visit on occasion, with the stink of open sewage and sickness and hunger lurking around every corner, the cost of the vile feudal system their forebears plundered for their own gain. He’s surprised to see Derdriu doesn’t suffer from a similar ailment, but there’s no time to consider that for now.

He finds the address he wants and ducks into the entryway with a polite nod to the old woman sitting on the stoop, chewing tobacco as she crochets. He climbs silently up the staircase to the third floor, then tests the handle on the fourth room. Unlocked. Holding his breath, he turns the doorknob and gently nudges it open.

And finds Dorothea Arnault standing over a wood fire stove, meat cleaver aimed square at his head.

“Wait,” he whispers urgently—

She bares her teeth and does not lower the knife. “Step inside and close the door. Hands raised. Or I’ll scream.”

Hubert hastily complies.

As he steps over a mound of discarded shoes beside the door, Hubert scans the boarding room. There are far too many belongings to be Dorothea’s alone; she must have found roommates. “Where are the others?”

“Work,” she says. “You know. That thing us common people do.”

Hubert shoots her a withering look.

“Oh, I know, you work hard. But because of, like, intergenerational trauma and stuff, not because you need the money.” She waves the knife around way too casually, her grip on its handle way too steady. “Why? Wanna know if someone’s gonna find my poisoned body anytime soon?”

Hubert grimaces. “I just needed to know if you are alone.”

Dorothea sighs and slumps against the wall. “I guess you really are here to tie up Edie’s loose ends, then. I should’ve known.”

“No. It’s nothing like that. I just—well.” He starts to lower his hands, but Dorothea lurches forward, knife lifted again. “We need your help.”

She stares at him for a long moment before shaking with laughter. “You? Needing _my _help? Imagine that.”

“This isn’t a joke. Ferdinand is in danger, and the rest of the black Eagles Strike Force will be soon, too, if we don’t hurry.” Hubert clenches his jaw. “I understand why you feel the way you do, but—these are our friends’ lives at stake.”

“_Our_ friends?” She raises one eyebrow. Okay. “One, you don’t have friends, Hubie—”

“That’s not true—I have . . . Her Majesty—Bernadetta and I knit sometimes—”

“And two, ‘our’ implies we are on some sort of team together. But you and Ferdie defected, or did you forget—”

“Fine. You were right. Is that what you want to hear? So be it.” He drags his fingers through his hair with a groan. “It was all a ruse. Ferdinand and I came here on a mission—”

“I knew it!” Dorothea groans, too, and presses her hand to her forehead as she leans over the stove. “You sneaky, shady bastard—Goddess, poor Ferdie—”

Hubert draws back. “Why poor him?”

“Because it’s all just a stupid game to you. More of your spycraft. And he’s had to pretend every day that your game was real? Do you have any idea what kind of torture that must have been for him?”

“My feelings for Ferdinand—” Hubert stops, closing his eyes, and waits for the lump in his throat to subside, but it refuses to budge. “They’re genuine.”

A tiny squeak escapes Dorothea.

“I . . . I love him. I have loved him far longer than I care to admit.”

When he opens his eyes again, Dorothea is watching him, a sad twist on her lips. “Oh, fuck. You’re serious.”

Hubert swallows. “I’m afraid so.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve told him this,” Dorothea says.

“Perhaps not in those exact words, but we’ve—done—um, things—”

“Oh, please, I knew you two were fucking, I mean, those hickies don’t make themselves, but there’s a difference—”

Hubert’s entire body flushes with heat. “That isn’t the point—”

“Fine.” At last, she sets down the knife. “So the defection was fake, but the affair isn’t. And you let all of us believe that the two of you—Edie’s most trusted advisors—”

“It wasn’t _my_ idea, all right? It was the professor’s. I didn’t want to do it, either, not least because being so close to Ferdinand, for so long, knowing my own dangerous feelings for him and how foolish it would be to act on them—”

“Dangerous? Foolish?” Dorothea smirks. “Wow, and you’re so romantic, too. Well. Thank the goddess Ferdie happens so like all that about you—”

“Enough already! I know you despise me.” Hubert slumps against the door. “And you have every reason to, especially given how much we’ve lied. But we need your help. All of us.”

Her stare is silent, but plenty loud. Dorothea had never been meant for war. Most of them hadn’t, if he’s being truly honest with himself. War was the machinery, necessary for their cause, and yet far too prone to shredding better souls than him in its gears. Where Dorothea worked best was patching things over, speaking honestly, pointing out alternatives, soothing and solving. All skills needed once the new Adrestia is sound, but not so well-suited for the cruelty of battle.

“Why,” Dorothea asks thinly, “should I help you?”

Hubert exhales. “Ferdinand is in danger.” His voice quavers—and ordinarily he’d be appalled and humiliated by it, but he’s too tired, too desperate now to mind. “And it’s my fault, the fault of this plan. But if you won’t to do this for me, then—if you’ll do it for your friend Ferdinand—”

“Do what? She frowns. “Hubie, what kind of danger have you put him in?”

“That’s for me to deal with,” Hubert says. His heart is racing again; each minute here is a minute wasted tracking down Ferdinand. “What I need from you is to send warning to Her Majesty.”

Dorothea narrows her eyes. “You really trust me with all that? Why don’t you go to her yourself?”

“It would seem I have no choice.” He shakes his head. “Not if I want to save Ferdinand.”

That at least seems to stump her into silence. “Macuil’s tits,” she breathes, after a minute. “You really do love him.”

Hubert pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, we’ve established that.”

Head still shaking, she pushes herself back to standing. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll take your stupid message. But not for you.” She glowers at him. “And not for the Empire, either.”

“Dare I ask why, then?”

“Because with all this killing I’ve done . . .” She looks down at her hands, wrung together in her lap. “It’d be nice to do something for love.”

* * *

Hubert practices with her until he’s certain she can repeat his coded message to Her Majesty exactly, then they part ways—Dorothea to the city gates, and Hubert to the canals.

The Duke’s Palace gleams in the distance, jagged and pearlescent on its island. He’s spent so much of their trip assessing it for ways to escape following an assassination—a backup plan he’d never quite been able to bring himself to admit to Ferdinand, for fear of what Ferdinand may think of him. And for good reason. Ferdinand wants to believe in another way, a dream that Hubert cannot share, no matter how much he wishes he could. And now it’s Ferdinand who is suffering for the harsh reality.

But Hubert cannot run off to search every mercenary camp in the city. He’s bound to be caught eventually, and every hour he spends in the open like this only raises the likelihood exponentially. If he wants to find Ferdinand, then he must get answers from the source.

And the source, unfortunately, would seem to be the Alliance scum who bought the mercenaries out from under him.

_Damn it, von Riegan._

Hubert hires a gondolier for another meandering tour of the canals. The boat feels empty, lopsided now without Ferdinand at his side. Has it really been so long since they took their ride together, gazing more at each other than the scenery, performing for their audience of guards? And yet to Hubert there had only been an audience of one: Ferdinand. Always Ferdinand.

He touches his fingertips to his lips and tries to remember that warmth that he may never earn again. Those copper eyes, so wide and trusting despite all these dreadful things he’s done.

An appalling deed to affect the greater good. Isn’t that always his fate, in the end? How fitting, then, but it will likely take even more dreadfulness to spare Ferdinand, and even if it makes Ferdinand despise him all the more—

In the end, at least Ferdinand will be alive. He hopes. And if he is a monster for valuing that above most anything else, well, being a monster is nothing new to him.

The gondolier looks back at him, her eyebrows twisted up with concern. “Are you all right there, pal?”

Hubert smiles and averts his gaze. “Just reminiscing, is all.”

She smirks. “Yeah, I get that sometimes from folks.”

And for a moment, it’s almost nice to think his problems might be common and small.

Finally, they near the Duke’s Palace. Smaller Srengi vessels crowd the bay, yet none are docked at the palace island. Hubert frowns at that; he’d been hoping the mercenaries might bring Ferdinand to the palace, especially if they were under Claude’s orders, as he suspects strongly that they are. But either way, this is his best chance at getting answers.

As they draw nearer, and the gondolier turns her attention to avoiding a rowboat full of mercenaries, Hubert rolls to one side and slips, silent, knife-like, into the cool waters.

For all his fear of heights, Hubert feels strangely at home in the water. True, his father found plenty of ways to me swimming greatly unpleasant during his training as a child—simulated drownings, breath training, and more—but underwater, there is silence and solitude. He keeps his eyes closed as he pushes himself by memory in the direction of the pipes jutting from the palace’s island base. He has nearly a full minute before his lungs begin to burn, thanks to his training; shortly after, he feels the ceramic lips of one of the bilge pipes and slips inside, then allows himself to surface in the dark passage.

Flattening himself against the bottom of the pipe, only his head visible above the mouth, he turns to glance back at the bay. But there is no commotion, no indication he’s been spotted, or his absence noted. It’ll have to be enough.

He works his way further down the pipe and into the palace’s bowels. Once again, he has to laugh. All that time he spent worrying about how he might flee the palace, and now here he is, trying to break his way in.

Before long, the pipe opens up to a natural cave, where some of the ducal vessels are docked. They had glimpsed this space when they arrived on the night of the masquerade not so long ago. Even then, there had been patrols stationed here; Hubert has no desire to deal with them any more then he has to. Bodies—unconscious or otherwise—are a nuisance at best. Heavy. Prone to telling a story, directly or in absentia. But they are sometimes unavoidable. Sometimes, bodies can offer opportunities to spellcasters like himself. He may not have his tome on hand, but he knows how to improvise.

So Hubert surfaces to the docks and finds a shadowed corner to wait for one of the liveried patrols to pass by. As soon as one approaches, he flings his arm around their throat and holds pressure on all the right points, waiting. Holding his own breath as he waits for theirs to slow. Once they are unconscious, it is an easy matter of struggling out of his own wet clothing.

A quick nick of the guard’s palm with the pin of their brooch, and then a sloppily-painted sigil in blood on the back of his own hand. Hubert grimaces as the disguising magic ripples over him, shortening his limbs, sprouting thicker dark hair on his body, rearranging the bones of his face. It will give him an hour, at most, but he is running short on options.

With the guard’s unconscious body safely stowed behind crates and their livery donned, Hubert hurries his way out of the docks and into the palace’s heart.

No one gives him a second look as he strides through endless marble corridors and winding staircases toward the war room he’d tried to reach the other night. At one point, he passes Marianne Edmonds, and her gaze slips briefly toward his—but she offers nothing save an acknowledging nod. He supposes she does seem the sort to greet the guards, know their names and families—he’d better be careful of that.

He reaches the war room itself, where he and Ferdinand had been grilled over his lady’s plans only a few short days ago. It is empty, for now: maps rolled up and stored in crates, the chalkboard scrubbed clean, no papers out on display. Hubert swears under his breath. There has to be something. Some documentation of their plans with the strategy, some indication where they might have taken Ferdinand. He pockets a particularly sharp letter opener, but the papers it’s resting atop are nothing but bills and paperwork relating to the masquerade.

He unrolls map after map, but they are all only contingencies, defensive plans corresponding to hypothetical Imperial attacks—

There is a commotion outside the war room door. Shit. Hubert has maybe ten minutes or so, if he’s lucky, left on the disguising magic, and given the sloppy, hasty nature of the sigil he drew for it, probably less. But even with the disguise, he has no business in here by himself.

He dives behind a desk of drawers and curls himself up tight, so tight, the way he did when he would play hide and seek with his father. But then, being found only meant the lash of a belt. This time it’s Ferdinand, too, who is at stake.

The door swings open, and what sounds like two sets of footsteps storm inside.

“When I told you to handle this,” a bitter voice says, unmistakably Claude von Riegan’s, “this is _not_ what I had in mind.”

“It got the job done, didn’t it?” A woman’s voice, sharp and snarky. Hubert quickly pegs it as Hilda’s. “Count Gloucester was right about one thing—we need the extra defense.”

There is the sound of rolls of paper slapping against the table and unfurling. “But this is more than just defense. It’s not a game anymore—she’s gonna see this as a clear act of aggression.”

“Just because you decided to play it like a game doesn’t mean it was.”

Claude counters, “Well, you gotta admit, it was kind of hilarious. And desperate. If they were that worried about us—I mean, her top two advisors? Seriously? Then I kind of like our odds there.”

“So? Now our odds are even better. I don’t see the problem. And Count Gloucester’s worked with them before, he vouched for them—”

“He worked with one of their lieutenants,” Claude says. “That’s not the same thing.”

Hilda makes an irritated noise in her throat. “The point is, we can win this thing. We’ve got the defenses, the numbers now, and her two top men locked up, or almost—”

“I know,” Claude says, a slight downturn in his tone. “I . . . guess I just hoped we might keep it from becoming a fight.”

Hilda sighs. “When have you ever known Edelgard to do that?”

As they turn to bickering about troop placements and street barricades, Hubert closes his eyes and bites down on his knee. They always knew he and Ferdinand were playing a ruse, then. And yet they let them play it, gave them nearly unlimited access to the Alliance leadership and territories, even greeted them as friends—for the most part—and let them bargain with mercenaries they’d already bought, even though they believe Her Majesty was bound and determined to make a war of it, no matter what—

Void’s sake. Maybe Ferdinand was right. Maybe there had been some kind of arrangement where this leg of the war could have been avoided—if they had been working toward that from the start—

But it is much too late for that.

At least he has some answers. And he knows something they don’t—that Edelgard will, in fact, get the advance warning she needs to hopefully avoid marching into a trap. But this gets him no closer to finding Ferdinand, or getting them both to safety. Maybe, if the bargaining chips of himself and Ferdinand are taken away from the Alliance, just maybe, they might be more apt to surrender after all—

Suddenly, his bones begin to throb, and his skin ripples, agonizing.

Shit.

Hubert tightens his grip on himself as the disguising blood sigil wears off. He bites down hard on his fist to suppress a cry, tendons of his hand rippling as it returns to long, spindly fingers rather than short, medium ones. His legs stretch, his waist collapses, and in the tight ball he has made of himself, there isn’t room for his longer body to stretch in the shorter man’s livery—

And then the sound of a seam ripping rends the air.

“What the fuck,” Hilda growls.

“Who’s there?” Claude calls. “Show yourself.”

Hubert gathers up the sharpened letter opener he snatched from the desk. It’s an awkward distribution of weight, but he has trained with all sorts, he should be able to use it if necessary—

But then Claude’s hand is reaching over the desk and grabbing him by the collar to wrench him from his hiding spot.

Hubert spins around in the torn tunic, and they regard one another. The man he can’t believe he’d been considering sparing, for Ferdinand’s sake. Now he’s responsible for whatever fate befalls Ferdinand, for whatever additional force Her Majesty faces at the city gates—

“Well. Nice of you to bring yourself here for us,” Claude says with a smirk. “Saves us the trouble.”

Rather than answer, Hubert ducks under Claude’s and twists out of his grasp. Claude responds quickly, bringing a fist around aimed at Hubert’s jaw, but Hubert has height and a lifetime of training on his side. He catches Claude by the fist, and wrenches him around, arms twisted behind his back in one hand, makeshift knife under Claude’s throat as Claude faces Hilda.

Hilda has grabbed a tube of maps, and brandishes it overhead. Not the most threatening weapon, but then, Hubert has seen the dense muscles of her axe-wielder’s arms.

Stalemate.

“_Where. Is. Ferdinand?_” Hubert hisses, digging the letter opener in just enough to draw a bead of blood.

Claude laughs heartily, though he stops himself short at the relentless press of the blade. “Oh, Hubert. I gotta say, I’m surprised. No—impressed. I was sure you’d be way more worried about your precious emperor than your fake boyfriend.”

“That is none of your concern,” Hubert snarls. “I need Ferdinand. Now.”

Hilda has lowered the tube, but starts toward them. With a sneer, Hubert pulls tighter on Claude’s arms bent behind his back and angle’s Claude’s head up to ensure she can see the sharpness of the blade.

“Don’t try anything.”

“Listen, Gloombert, while we got you here—I just have to ask.” Claude swallows, knife scraping along his throat. “Was any of it real? Or are you really just the same heartless bastard you were back at school?”

Hubert’s eye twitches. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“I just mean—” Claude sighs. “If it was really all just a show, then you’re an even better actor than I thought. I think you even had Ferdie fooled.”

Hubert doesn’t dare show even an ounce of weakness now. He needs the full force of his reputation to pull off—well. Whatever plan he can cobble out of this increasingly untenable situation. But it’s already nearly lost, and he’s already endured enough—

He keeps the knife steady. “My feelings for Ferdinand are real. Whatever else—that’s up to him.” With renewed vigor, he tightens the snare. “Or maybe I should say it’s up to you, to do as I demand—”

“Fucking gag me,” Hilda says—as the door to the war room swings open.

All three of them go still.

Lorenz Hellman Gloucester strides into the war room on burgundy heels and a fluttering translucent blue dressing down embroidered in roses that he’s wrapped over what seems to be a violet nightgown. He takes in this scene as Claude and Hilda snap to attention—only Claude is drawn up short by Hubert, currently keeping him locked in place.

Lorenz assesses them with a weary sigh. “I suppose it’s only fair you threaten my beau,” Lorenz says. “I can’t exactly say I am pleased with how those ruffians are handling our dear Ferdinand.”

Hubert sneers at Lorenz. “What do you mean? Where is he? Bring him to me, or I will kill your precious Claude, I mean it—”

Lorenz flicks his fingers at Hubert as if in dismissal. “Oh, I’m sure you would, but then where would we all be? We have more pressing concerns.” He strides toward the war room table and gives it a cursory scan. “In any case, I’m afraid Ferdinand is beyond my reach now. My father’s hired men have him in hand.”

“So order them to bring him here,” Hubert seethes.

Lorenz presses his knuckles against the table and fixes a steely violet gaze on Hubert. “Well, you see, that is what I came to report. That my father’s soldiers—the Gloucester forces, that is—have now arrived, and joined with the mercenaries that he hired to assist us in our defense.”

Claude goes slack with relief against Hubert, who is forced to tighten his hold. “Well, that’s a good thing, right? More men to hold off the Empire. So, Hubert, if you don’t mind just letting me go so I can get back to crushing the Imperial forces—”

“But therein lies the problem, you see.” Lorenz sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “My father just declared that he has subsumed the Alliance and mercenary forces under his command. And he says that you, dear Claude, have proven yourself unfit to hold Derdriu against the Empire. So it is not merely an invasion we must hold off.” His scowl deepens. “It’s a coup.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** Ferdinand must play the hand he's been dealt.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Well. I knew the project I'd taken on at the end of February was going to eat up all my time for four months, but I didn't expect it to do so to quite the extent it did, and then to stretch that out to _seven_ whole months. BUT IT'S DONE NOW AND I TOOK TWENTY-FOUR HOURS TO STARE AT A WALL AND DO NOTHING AND THEN I PICKED THIS BACK UP AND HERE I AM. Gosh I have felt terrible about not finishing this, and I hate knowing that this update is almost certainly going to be a massive disappointment, but also, I suspect that after seven months just about anything will feel like a disappointment, so I might as well get on with it~
> 
> Chapter 13 fanart!
> 
> [WHERE IS FERDINAND?!](https://twitter.com/NoxDrawsTrash/status/1223015495684608000?s=20) by @NoxDrawsTrash
> 
> [We Are Fucking Under Attack :)](https://twitter.com/SuzumeAtsume/status/1223080016927428611?s=20) by @SuzumeAtsume

“I’ll trade a sellsword for an ambassador,” Ferdinand says, tapping the card in his hand. A flinty-eyed mercenary, beard unkempt, poorly tempered shortsword brandished in a blunt threat marks the sellsword card, its edges worn and nicked from countless rounds of play. Nothing like the coolly aloof woman across from him, Preethi, with her sleek boots propped on the card table as she leans back in her chair. But it would be dangerous to forget precisely who and what she is.

She might be a fan of playing Kingmaker, but she is still his captor, after all.

“What use has my hand got for a sellsword?” she asks. “We’ve already got the prince. Now maybe I need this ambassador—assuming I do, in fact, have one in my hand—to settle the score.”

Ferdinand knows she has one because she offered it three rounds ago, and as much as she’s bartered with the bank, even she must know that card’s worth hanging on to. But he’ll keep that part to himself.

“Sellsword for a spy, then. Since you’ve already got what you want in hand.”

“I don’t trust you with a spy,” Preethi counters.

_Good. I don’t trust myself either,_ Ferdinand thinks with a sigh. He shakes away memories of dark hair, venomous eyes. “This is why it’s always better to have three players for Kingmaker, so you don’t get locked into a stalemate like this.”

“Yeah, but I’m not pulling away any of your guards from duty just so we’ll have a third.” Preethi wipes her nose on her sleeve. “Bad enough I’m playing with you, but hells, not like either of us have better to do, eh?”

Ferdinand splays his cards face-down on the table and leans back as well, mirroring her posture as subtly as a man named Ferdinand von Aegir can do just about anything. “If you’re Vakh’s lieutenant, I’m surprised you’re not out there with him,” he says. “I’d think he’d want his top people out on the front lines with him.”

Her gaze instantly hardens, a portcullis slamming down. “_One of_ his lieutenants. And guarding your fancy ass is important work, too.”

Ferdinand gives her a crooked smile. “Do not mistake me, I am flattered to hear that! But I confess, I do not exactly pose that much of a threat. You could have tied me up and been done with it.”

The fact that his throat isn’t already slit and his body kicked over into the Derdriu Harbor is more than enough to tell him they have some other plan for him, granted. He’ll be damned, though, if he has any idea what. Ransom from Her Majesty? A political prisoner for Duke von Riegan to parade around? He’s still trying to sort it out.

When the mercenaries had flooded into their villa, he was certain that Adrestia had been outbid by the Leicester Alliance for their services, and that he and Hubert were to be detained until the mercenaries and the Alliance together could repel Her Majesty’s march on their capital. But the hints and whispers he's gleaned from Preethi and her guardsmen make him less sure. More than once, he’s thought he heard the name _Gloucester_ uttered. Pronounced correctly, even—a feat one only ever accomplishes if they’ve been around a Gloucester who beat it into their head.

“Maybe I’ll hang onto this sellsword after all,” Ferdinand mumbles, and rearranges the cards in his hand. “It’s not a style of Kingmaker I’ve played before, but they can be worth more in certain strategies.”

“And a pretty ponce like you is well-versed in Kingmaker strategies, is he?” Preethi asks, eyes narrowed to slits.

Ferdinand tips his head in the direction of the metal flask he’s seen her stealing sips out of. “Give me a drink of that, and I’ll tell you just how much.”

* * *

Hubert is curled into a ball on the cushioned wood chair, arms around his calves and thighs, eyes itching with a phantom grit. He can’t stop shaking, teeth chattering, and at this point, he can no longer tell if it’s from the stress withdrawal or from his soggy clothes.

“There, there,” Lorenz says from beside him, sounding almost as uncomfortable as Hubert feels. “I’m sure Ferdinand can hold his own.” He settles his gauzy purple and rose-embroidered robe around Hubert’s shoulders, as if it might actually warm him up somehow.

“People can’t help but like him,” Claude adds. He seems as eager as any to pretend that five minutes ago Hubert didn’t have a knife pressed to his neck.

Hubert makes a guttural noise in the back of his throat. “Oh, can’t they? I spent the better part of our year at the academy wanting to throttle him for how unbearably obnoxious he was.”

Lorenz and Claude exchange a look over Hubert’s head, and Claude shakes his head with a carefree smirk. “My point remains.”

“If you dickwads are done trying to baby the guy who was, like, ready to sell us out to the Srengi or whatever, I kinda need to tell the troops something,” Hilda says.

They all turn to where she’s standing guard at the door, Freikugel slung over one shoulder like it’s weightless. Hubert tries to ignore its intermittent twitching, but Aymr, at least, seems better-behaved than this atrocity. Hilda catches his glance, and narrows her eyes with a menacing crack of her gum.

“What troops,” Claude says, mostly to himself. “Apparently they’re all in the pockets of Count Gloucester.”

“Duke,” Lorenz corrects him. “He’s trying to seize control of the Alliance, and so far, it’s working. Duke Gloucester.”

“Really less concerned about titles right now, Lor—”

“And did you all just forget the part where Hubert there tried to _kill us_?” Hilda shouts.

Claude glances back at Hubert, expression unchanged. “Well, he was upset.”

_“I mean with the mercenaries, smartass.”_

Claude’s mouth curves down, and he looks back to the map in front of him. “Hey, Gloombert. What exactly did you hire the Srengi to do?”

Hubert yanks off the ridiculous lavender robe and lets his feet drop back to the floor. “As if I’d ever tell y—”

Freikugel’s phalanges chitter eagerly as Hilda unhooks it from her shoulder. “Go on,” Hilda says. “Big Bertha’s hungry.”

“You call that disgusting thing Big—Urkh.”

Hubert smears whatever retort he’d been making all over his face as he drags his hands down his cheeks. It was bad enough that the Alliance leaders had—apparently—seen right through his and Ferdinand’s ruse from the start. (_Everyone saw right through you,_ taunts the voice in the back of Hubert’s head.) But now he’s failed at the most crucial part of his mission, the entire _point_ of what he’d been sent here to do. Infiltrate the Alliance, find the city’s weaknesses, and orchestrate an assault from the harbor side to misdirect their forces and require them to leave the land side undefended for Her Majesty’s troops to sweep in. Now his lady is marching straight for a trap, one that’s snared him and the Alliance leadership both, and for what? Because he was too distracted by copper hair and an uncertain smile and the ache of want that even five years of denial couldn’t smother out? Because he—the _imperial spymaster_, trained for this practically from birth—was too enamored to notice the Srengi had been bought out from under his nose?

Flames. The least Claude and the rest could do is hate him a little more. Lock him up—it’s the least he deserves. But no—

Ferdinand. He can’t leave Ferdinand to whatever fate the mercenaries have in mind. As much as he’s fucked up everything else, he owes Ferdinand that. He . . .

“Uh-oh,” Claude says. “Gloombert looks like he’s getting some kind of idea again. Should I be worried?”

“Count Gloucester,” Hubert says, looking from Claude to Lorenz. “What is it he’s after?”

Claude exhales and leans against the map table with a grimace. “To be blunt, he’s a bit of a purist.”

“As in Seiros, or . . .”

“As in everything. He _hates_ that I’ve inherited the leadership post. Because my dad was Almyran, and he thinks my mom was some kind of traitor, and he knows the Church just isn’t a major factor in any rulings I make . . .”

“He had me spying on Kha—Claude throughout our year at the Academy,” Lorenz says.

Hubert glances between them with an amused smirk. “He must be really furious now, then.”

“He doesn’t know,” Lorenz says bluntly. “Or he shouldn’t.”

“He shouldn’t a lot of things he’s doing right now.” Hubert stands up, starting to pace, and Hilda once more moves toward him, Freikugel at the ready, but Claude holds out a hand to stay her. She pokes out a gum-wrapped tongue at him. Hubert tries to ignore them all, turning the puzzle pieces around in his mind. The imperial dagger, the count, the mercenaries . . .

“Count Gloucester fought with the empire against the Hrym Rebellion, didn’t he?” Hubert asks.

Lorenz nods, wary. “That’s right.”

“And was awarded with imperial honors for it.” Like that dagger. He must have paid another mercenary to use it to try to spook him and Ferdinand off. “How certain are you that you have no spies in the Ducal Palace?” Hubert asks, voice dropping.

“Not nearly as much as I’d like to be. But I haven’t seen any evidence that—”

“Of course you haven’t. Any spy worth the effort to embed them isn’t going to give themselves away at the first opportunity. You don’t risk exposure over a five-gold secret when a five-thousand gold one is around the corner, if you wait long enough.”

“Really don’t think you’re the one to be dishing out spy tips right now, buddy—”

“Oh, shut up.” Hubert clenches his jaw, mind still whirring. “How much do you trust the people in this room, at least?”

Hilda swears, and Claude snorts. “You’re kinda bringing down the average, von Vestra.”

“_Aside_ from me.”

Claude’s smile fades, and he looks from Hilda to Lorenz. “Well . . . it took some time. Hilda only trusts people as far as they’re useful to her, and Lorenz, he—you heard him. The count tried to make him into a spy for a time.”

“But no longer?” Hubert asks.

They’re silent for a moment, but then Lorenz takes a step toward Claude, and the coolly detached face he’s worn every time Lorenz has been in Hubert’s presence cracks at last. He cups a hand to Claude’s cheek, and Claude covers it with his own; they gaze at each other with tired sighs. Hubert swallows, a sudden lump in his throat, and forces himself to look away. Because it’s not a moment meant for him—but also because it makes Ferdinand’s absence that much more painful to bear.

They exchange a few words in a language Hubert doesn’t understand, the lilting rise and fall of it like the words in the Almyran market he visited with Ferdinand, then Claude looks up at Hubert again. “I trust him.”

Hubert forces himself to glower once more. “If you insist.” He supposes there’s no point arguing against it; at least it’s only the three of them right now. “My point is, the count’s spy is doubtless still in the palace here somewhere, waiting to carry out their orders. Or to report back to him on what moves you decide to make against his play.”

Lorenz reclaims his dressing robe and wraps it tightly around himself. “So you’re saying we put on a little show of our own.”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Hilda groans.

“C’mon, Hils. He’s got a point.”

She slumps against the wall, setting Freikugel down beside her. “Uuugghhhhh fine. But only if part of this ‘show’ involves me getting to beat him up.”

Hubert raises one eyebrow. “I think that can be arranged.”

* * *

“And then he said—get this, then he says—‘There are things I want more.’ Can you _believe_ the gall?”

“No!” Preethi howls, hand slapping the table and sending cards flying. “What a total turd!”

“He is, is he not?” Ferdinand tosses back another shot of the thick brown rum. “Hubert von Vestra. You are a _turd_.”

Preethi wipes her mouth on the back of her arm. “Honestly, Ferdin—Ferd? Can I call you Ferd? You could do so much better.” She pops the cork off of the bottle with a satisfying _gluk_ and refills both their glasses.

Ferdinand stares down into the drink, the room wavering around him, but her words send a jolt of sobriety through him. “Perhaps. But despite it all, he’s who I want.”

Preethi makes a face, and downs another gulp.

She’s not drunk. He knows far better than to think that. If they keep this up, he’ll be blacked out long before she’s ever truly intoxicated. But if she were fully in her right mind, she wouldn’t be here drinking with him to begin with, much less befriending him. But what better does she have to do? Her boss stuck her on babysitting duty for a dandy, after all, while he and his other lieutenant are off sacking the city or whatever the hells they’re doing now. At least he’s entertaining.

If nothing else, Ferdinand von Aegir knows he’s capable of being entertaining. Easy to talk to. And despite it all, more understanding than most give him credit for.

If only his charms worked on Hubert. If only they worked _enough_, if he was enough . . .

Ferdinand shakes his head and takes another gulp, or at least, makes it look like he does. In reality, he only lets the slightest drop of rum pass his lips. “But what about you?” he asks, and makes no effort to keep his speech from slurring. “Maybe there’s someone special waiting for you back in port?”

Preethi crinkles her nose, and slumps back in her chair. “Ugh. If only. Only gent I ever loved refused to leave Morfis with me, and the folks out here in Fódlan just aren’t the same.”

“Why wouldn’t he leave Morfis?” Ferdinand asks.

Her gaze goes somewhere far away, a land Ferdinand’s only read wild and probably wildly inaccurate travel journals about. City of Illusions, a council of mages, and more. “Well, I can’t be saying too much,” Preethi starts, rocking her glass around in her hand. “Morfisians, we’re a closed-up bunch, supposed to protect our island from the likes of you and all.”

“Meaning Adrestia?”

She waves her hand, rum sloshing from the glass. “Meaning . . . all of it. Alliance, Almyra, Albinea, it’s all the same. You say you want to trade with us, then next thing we know you’re barging through our gates with your goddess in tow, or whoever, trying to sweep away what makes us Morfis to begin with. And, hells, we do need the trade, we do need to be better connected with the outside world. S’why I left, after all, because I knew there had to be more to the world than what was in our walls. But keeping to ourselves, even if it smothered us a bit? Was the only way to keep us safe.”

“Yes, well, the old guard does love their little holy wars, I will concede.” Ferdinand winces, trying not to see his father’s face, or hear his voice in his own. “At least Her Majesty’s trying to remake the whole system from the ground up. Even if it means more turmoil in Fódlan at the start . . .”

“’Remake the system’? The hells is that even supposed to mean? Coz from where we are, it just looks like more of the same old wars to me. That’s how we got involved, after all. Somebody pays coin to Vakh, we come in, we conquer, we get our cut, we head out. Easier than worrying about who’s right or who’s wrong.”

“Ah, but Emperor Edelgard, her plan is rather different. She’s fighting not to conquer, but to tear out the poisonous roots of the old ways! Why, I personally had a hand in crafting her fifteen-point plan for redistribution of wealth and removing the crest system, and my educational reform bill—”

“Yeah, yeah, still sounds like more nobles getting themselves richer to me.”

Ferdinand’s face is flushed, pride and determination working its dangerous alchemy with the rum in his veins. So maybe he isn’t the clever operative Hubert wanted for this mission. This, though—persuading the jaded, selling his vision, inspiring the masses—_this_ is what a von Aegir is born to do. They can use it selfishly, as his father has done, to grab more power for themselves. Or like a truly noble noble, they can use it to remake a better Fódlan.

“Then I suppose you didn’t know—” Ferdinand grins coyly, picking up his own glass—“that every noble in Her Majesty’s employ has renounced their title and forfeited almost all of their lands and wealth.”

Preethi peers down her nose at him. “_You_ gave up your title and all your pretty gold.”

“Indeed! Where I was once set to become Duke Aegir, I am now merely Ferdinand of Adrestia! A general in the army and the prime minister of parliament, true, but the latter is only until proper Adrestia-wide elections can be held!”

“What’s the catch? You just trade out your duchy for some other new fancy-worded thing? I thought you all were supposed to be divinely ordained by your goddess because of your crests or whatever that rot is.”

“Not under Her Majesty’s new order.” Ferdinand taps his chest. “This is real, true progress—the likes of which Fódlan has never before seen!”

Preethi looks at him dubiously and drains her glass. “All right, I’ll bite. What is this lady’s . . . ‘grand plan’?”

Ferdinand sits up straight, and takes another tiny sip for himself. “I’m so glad you asked.”

* * *

Hubert winces as Hilda’s hand jerks at his bicep, all but dragging him down the grand staircase. “You’re enjoying this way too much, Goneril.”

She bares her teeth at him. “Trust me, I could enjoy it way more.”

He rolls his eyes at her, but keeps his mouth shut. He is their prisoner now—and it’s time to play his part.

“Claude? Hilda? What’s going on?” Leonie asks, sweeping toward them from the opposite hallway of the one they’d just left, with Lorenz on her heels. It was either her or Raphael for this role, Claude figured, and she had the better poker face. (“At least she _has_ a poker face,” he’d said.)

“Listen, Leonie, I’ve got a really important job for you, all right?” Hubert strains to hear Claude as he lowers is voice, though Hilda’s continuing to tug him away. “In case you haven’t noticed, the count and his mercs have the palace surrounded. An island only does us so much good when he’s got Srengi longboats on his side.”

“What are you saying?” Leonie asks urgently. The poor dear is either doing a great job of faking it, or there’s enough genuine panic to fuel her performance. Hubert couldn’t blame her if it’s the latter.

But his gaze is on the nearest palace guards, looking for any who might be shifting a little too close, paying a little too much mind to their hushed words. He knows he’s not wrong about the palace having a mole. He can’t be. Otherwise this is all for nothing, and their plan won’t accomplish a damned thing . . . and won’t get him any closer to Ferdinand.

Flames. Is that all he cares about? He’s collaborating with the very people he was sent here to undermine, just so he can save Ferdinand, who surely, rightfully, despises him still for years and years of torment he’s put him through, for all the casual cruelty he’s inflicted without thought, and now, for keeping Ferdinand in the dark about his mission for so long, only to run counter to it at the first sign of Ferdinand being lost to him . . .

But no. This is the best thing for Ferdinand and Adrestia both. He has to believe that, or else he’ll fall apart.

Whatever becomes of the Leicester Alliance afterward isn’t his concern. He’s just protecting Imperial assets, is all, and sometimes that means working with the enemy, and it doesn’t mean he’s going soft—

_Oh, give it a rest already, Hubert,_ he can just hear Ferdinand’s voice in his head. _Is it really so painful, so impossible to admit that even you can have feelings sometimes? Are you really going to go to such lengths to pretend you’re free of emotion, when it’s that very emotion that makes you—_

That makes him what? Capable of being loved? For a brief time, here in the fantasy world of their ruse, he almost believed he could be.

“—only choice, if we want to give the Leicester Alliance as we know it a chance, is to smuggle me out of the palace while they waste their efforts trying to break into it. Can I entrust you with this task, Leonie?”

“But where will I smuggle you to?” she asks, eyes glistening with resolve.

“Get me to the Almyran quarter. There are people I can make arrangements with there. We should probably take the back roads—Seafarer Alley and so on—just so we can make sure we aren’t followed. Trust me, it’ll work.”

“And everyone else?” she asks.

Claude steels himself with the stoic look of the leader who knows every sacrifice he must make. “They’ll stay here,” he says softly, “and do their best for as long as they can.”

Leonie blinks her eyes a few times, then juts up her chin. “Yes, sir. I can.”

“Great. Meet me in the auxiliary docks. Thirty minutes. Hilda?” Claude adds, raising his voice again. “Take that Imperial pig to the dungeons.”

“With pleasure,” Hilda purrs.

Hubert braces himself, but her violent yank at his arm nearly pulls him off-balance all the same. “C’mooon, we’re gonna have so much fun,” she tells him.

And the fun is about to begin.

As long his hunch about the spy is right.

* * *

“That’s just it. You’d think the Srengi would get it, right? All the shit they’ve dealt with from Gautier over the centuries, and all. But I guess I can’t blame ‘em for takin’ all that anger and usin’ it to scrape cold coin up instead. Hells, not like I’ve done any different, joinin’ up with them.”

Ferdinand is draped halfway across his chair, orange curls hanging like streamers to the floor of the basement where they’ve been squirreled away. “S’not your fault,” he drawls. “You had to survive somehow. And why not—” He suppresses a hiccup. “Have some fun while you are doing so.”

“See?” Preethi laughs dryly. “You get it. You may be a fancy prick, but at least you kinda get it. You and your emperor lady, I guess there could be worse—”

The locks and chains sealing them in rattle and clank to the floor, and Preethi shoots up, trying to stand upright and at attention. Ferdinand thinks she does an admirable attempt at it, but then, he might not be in the best position to judge right now.

“The fuck’s going on here?” Bryn growls, gray eyes sliding from Preethi to Ferdinand. “You having a party without me, Preethi?”

“Just keeping the high-value prisoner in good spirits, is all. He ain’t worth as much all broken and sad.”

Ferdinand channels the full force of his willpower into keeping his mouth shut despite all instincts to the contrary.

Bryn rolls her eyes and leans against the doorway. “Well, if you’re done with your tea party, then get the _prisoner_ ready to move. We’re supposed to bring him to the count.”

_Count_, Ferdinand echoes to himself. Count Vestra? No, that doesn’t make sense, and Hubert would rather die rather than take his dead father’s (demoted) title. Then he remembers _Gloucester_ whispered amongst the guards. Count Gloucester.

Was all of this Count Gloucester’s doing, and not merely the mercenaries taking advantage of the situation? He clamps his jaw tight and tries not to let his many, deeply unpleasant thoughts about Lorenz’s father show on his face.

“All right, Ferd, you heard her. Stand up, hands together in front of you.” Preethi picks up the length of rope she’d initially bound his hands with, long since discarded to facilitate their rounds of Kingmaker. “You’ve been so cooperative thus far, I’d hate to think that’s gonna change.”

Ferdinand cooperates as best he can in his wobbly condition. “What’s the count what with me anyway? Last I recall, he is not my biggest fan.”

Bryn bares her teeth at him in a crude smile. “That’s none of your business, fancy boy.”

He scowls. At least she didn’t correct him—meaning he’s probably guessed right.

Then the burlap hood goes back over his head, and all he can do is wait. Wait, and hope that if Hubert and his idiot sneaky snake-like ways can’t get them out of this, then his negotiating prowess can.

* * *

The cart judders along the cobblestones of the Almyran quarter. To any onlookers, it should appear to be nothing but a farmer hauling in his bales of hay for a day at the market. To any of Gloucester’s mercenaries who’ve hopefully been tipped off by their spies in the Duke’s Palace, though, it should look like a desperate ploy by the Alliance to smuggle Claude away from the fighting and to somewhere he can rule in exile.

What it actually is, is Hubert, buried under the hay, borrowed knives and crossbow at the ready, while Leonie Pinelli drives the cart with a hood pulled low over her eyes and another crossbow at her side. And the rest of the Alliance’s elite—Claude, Lorenz, Lysithea, Hilda, Raphael, Ignatz, and Marianne—spread across the rooftops overhead, waiting for Count Gloucester’s men to waltz into their trap.

Assuming, that is, that they even know about the bait.

Another row of cobblestones set Hubert’s teeth rattling. He can’t hear much from under the bales of hay, but if there’s an attack on the cart, he’d like to think he’d hear _some_thing. He strains to hear the clop of approaching hooves, or shouts, or even the whiz of an arrow parting the air—

_Thunk._

There. The unmistakable sound of an arrow plowing into one of the hay bales above him; not even the best marksman should be able to fire one deep enough to reach him underneath. A muffled cry, and then a roar—Is it Hilda’s battle shout? Someone else? Is that Srengi he hears, or Almyran? Steel grating steel—

A tickle in his bones like the tug of black magic; the tainted skin of his fingertips yearns to answer its call—

Another roar, sounding wounded. The cart jostling—either struck, or the horses spooked. He can’t tell which way the tide of battle is turning, if it’s turning at all. How many men could Count Gloucester possibly have sent?

Shouts that finally coalesce into words—_just_ _grab the cargo, just grab him and go_—

The hay bales start to shift above him, and finally one is ripped away, exposing daylight and the bloodied face of a pale Srengi mercenary. “The fuck,” he growls, “you’re not von Riegan—”

Then he topples backward as a crossbow bolt plants in his chest, and Leonie appears above Hubert. “Come on!”

Hubert lurches out of his nest, pulling the sturdiest dagger free, and scans the alleyway. Leonie’s already lining up a shot on another mercenary, while Hilda and Raphael are facing down a cluster of them at the mouth of another street. Claude’s lining up a shot with Failnaught while Lorenz’s steed thunders by to chase down a runner.

No one is paying him any mind. It would be so easy to forget the plan and run, run somewhere else where he can figure out a way to turn this all to his lady’s advantage alone—

Void’s sake, he’s gone soft. Ferdinand must be so pleased.

Hubert catches the mercenary threatening Leonie by the collar and wrenches him backward, easily bringing the dagger up to his throat. “Where were you supposed to take von Riegan?” he snarls in the man’s ear. “Answer and you might live.”

“To—to the Sky Gardens!” he cries, dropping his shortsword and raising both hands. “He wants him at the Sky Gardens so he can bargain with the emperor bitch—”

A bladed fist plunges into the man’s chest, and Raphael howls with glee. “Got ‘im! Saved ya, Hubert!”

Hubert blinks a few times, watching as Raphael pulls back the gory fist weapon, grinning proud as can be. “Ah . . . Thanks.”

Claude rushes up to them, slinging Failnaught over his back. “Any runners?”

“None, boss,” Leonie reports.

“Pretty sure we caught all of ‘em.”

“Good. Grab their horses and cloaks, then, and let’s get ready. Where are we headed, Gloombert?”

Hubert stares at him. He’s really trusting him so easily, even now? “The . . . Sky Gardens. Apparently Gloucester is planning to use you as a bargaining chip with Her Majesty.”

“Cute.” Claude grimaces, staring off into the distance for a moment, and Lorenz sighs. “Then I guess it’s time for Part Two.”

* * *

Before the hood comes off, Ferdinand smells flowers, herbs. His boots click against painted tiles and echo over the gurgle of fountains. Wherever Count Gloucester has embedded himself, like some kind of traitorous tick, he’s chosen a lovely setpiece for it.

At last Ferdinand is shoved to his knees, and the bag yanked off his head, revealing Count Gloucester and—far more interestingly—the beautiful vistas of the Sky Gardens, encompassing the northwestern wall of Derdriu, granting a view of the plains to the west, mountains north and south, and city and harbor to the east. “Ah!” he says to himself, satisfied, and recalls that he’d been planning to bring Hubert here for Ferdinand’s birthday, until he remembers, a little belatedly, that celebrating Ferdinand’s birthday is probably the furthest desire from Hubert’s heart after everything, and with the soggy uncertainty of rum, he isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

“Something amusing to you, General von Aegir?” the count asks, scowling down at him. He hardly looks anything like Lorenz; Lorenz must have gotten his looks from his mother, along with his purple hue.

Ferdinand looks up at him with a grin. “It’s amusing, is all. You side with the Empire against the Hrym rebellion, then side with the Alliance when Her Majesty declares war on the Church. Now who are you siding with? Or has it always just been you siding with yourself?”

“Better than leaving the art of war, statecraft, to all you _children_ scampering around over the goddess’s continent,” he all but spits.

“That’s it, then, you’re looking to show us the error of our ways.” He glances westward, toward where the Adrestian army is—he fears—amassing even now to lay siege to the city, unaware of the current state of things. “You think years are the same thing as wisdom.”

Gloucester’s hand cracks across his cheek, and it takes a few seconds for the pain to ring through Ferdinand’s skull, so he has to at least give the rum credit for _that_.

“The Hresvelg bitch has stretched herself too thin, though it’s a miracle she’s gotten as far as she has. I’m sure I can persuade her, though, just why she must leave Derdriu untouched. And you’re going to help me do the convincing.”

Ferdinand frowns at him. “And why on earth would I do that?”

“Because she is weak and sentimental. And would likely rather see you live than hanged over the city’s side.”

Preethi bristles at Ferdinand’s back. Ferdinand finally takes stock, then, of just who Gloucester has surrounded himself with: Vakh, the mercenary leader, and his other lieutenants. This is their base of operations, apparently, for ripping the Alliance out of Claude’s hands and making their stand against Adrestia. And then what? Reclaiming everything the empire’s freed?

“Is this the goddess’s will?” Ferdinand asks, and—downtrodden believer that he is—he can’t help the dejection in his tone. “To drag this war ever onward? Pushing boundaries back and forth like shuffleboard?”

“This will be the war to end all wars,” Gloucester says with a scowl.

“Heard that one before.” From his father’s lips, no less.

Gloucester grimaces and motions to the mercenaries. “Put his hood back on. We’re done until the bitch marches forth.”

“Thought she was supposed to be here by now,” Vakh says, glaring off into the plains.

So did Ferdinand. He’s glad not to see those red banners flapping over the hill, but he’s trying not to get his hopes up all the same. He’s had no way to warn Her Majesty of the trap she’s been marching toward. He can only pray perhaps Hubert found some other way . . .

Hubert. Asshole. Genius. Tender, loving bastard. Surely all these things can’t be true about him, and yet Ferdinand feels them all at once, just the same.

He’d asked Hubert to stop being himself for once. But even those parts of Hubert that vex him and infuriate him—those, too, he wants to love, if only because they balance himself. Why can’t he accept that? Why can’t he just love him all?

Useless to waste his time on it, he supposes. Certainly now. Hubert’s dead or missing, and soon, he will be too. Soon, their dreams of a freer Fódlan will be well and truly dashed.

“The contingent is back from the Almyran quarter,” a guard announces, and Gloucester sits up so straight it’s like a hot coal was under him.

“And?”

“They’re bringing in the prisoner now.”

Gloucester slumps back into his seat with a vile grin. Goddess, Ferdinand never liked the man, but he never found him quite so punchable as this. “Bring him to me.”

The mercenaries that shuffle onto the terrace of the Sky Gardens all wear heavy hoods over their leather armor, heads bowed as they move forward. Their prisoner—_Claude_, Ferdinand reminds himself, with a twist in his gut—is dragged between the largest of them and another tall man, arms locked behind his back. Like Ferdinand, he, too, has been forced to don a burlap sack over his head. Ferdinand can sympathize.

Although he looks suspiciously . . . _taller_ than Ferdinand remembers Claude being.

“Bring him here,” Gloucester barks. “Let me see him.”

They drag him up the terrace steps to the dais Gloucester has claimed as his throne, and Vakh, the head of the mercenaries, steps forward.

“As promised,” he intones, his voice positively oozing with smugness. “The erstwhile leader of the Leicester Alliance.”

Vakh grabs the sack and wrenches it off Claude’s head, and then everything seems to happen at once.

Shouting behind them as hooded mercenary turns on mercenary—metal ringing against . . . well, _not_ metal, Ferdinand can tell that much. It has the distinctive hollow, chalky sound of relics when they clash with conventional weapons and shatter them into shards.

The hood lifting off, but it isn’t Claude underneath. It’s Hubert von Vestra, that ratty opossum spider snake, and Ferdinand is both so shocked and yet so not that the only sound he’s capable of making is like a chicken who’s been kicked.

Gloucester, Vakh, Bryn, and Preethi shouting in reaction, three different languages amongst the four.

And then the shriek of an arrow cutting through the sky and piercing Vakh’s heart.

“No one betrays Lady Edelgard,” Hubert snarls, pouncing on Count Gloucester, “without paying a heavy cost.”

“Hubert, wait!” Ferdinand cries.

Hubert glances up, and in that instant, Bryn swings her shortsword right at him. Ferdinand flings himself forward and he falls on top of Hubert and Count Gloucester, confusing things enough that Bryn draws back on her attack. “Dammit, Ferd,” Preethi seethes, and readies her scythe.

“You don’t have to fight us,” Ferdinand tells her, trying to push himself up off of Hubert, but with his hands bound, he only succeeds in smooshing his palms into Hubert’s face. “Remember what I told you about Her Majesty.”

Preethi and Bryn stare at each other, swords readied. Vakh is dead and Bryn, most likely, was next in line. Preethi must be running the calculations right now, just how she’ll fare in their company after all that.

“Ah, hells,” Preethi says. “I was gettin’ tired of them anyway.”

She lunges at Bryn, and in a few quick clangs of swords, it’s over. Bryn falls at Vakh’s side.

“Get—off—of—me!” Gloucester cries, and plunges his thumbs toward Hubert’s eyes. Hubert dodges the assault, and they tumble away, knocking Ferdinand off, Hubert’s assassin instincts clashing against a combat veteran.

“Why didn’t—you want me—to kill him?” Hubert shouts at Ferdinand, as he struggles to pin Count Gloucester down, and the hand Gloucester has managed to draw a dagger of his own with.

Ferdinand stares. “Oh, him? No, he can die. I just did not want Preethi hurt, is all!”

That’s all Hubert needs to hear. Ferdinand turns his head to the side so not to see. He knows Hubert is more than adequate with his blade; he doesn’t need to confirm it for himself.

Claude von Riegan and Leonie Pinelli come running up to them. “Is everyone all right?”

“She’s with them,” Leonie says, raising the crossbow toward Preethi, but Ferdinand lifts his bound hands.

“No, no. She’s all right.”

And just like that, the Alliance leaders believe him. Ferdinand tilts his head. No wonder even Hubert somehow ended up on their side.

. . . Hubert’s on their side?

“Is that all of the mercenaries, then?” Lysithea asks, striding forward as a dark spell dissolves in her hands. “Kinda disappointing, if you ask me.”

“The city’s still full of ‘em,” Preethi says, “but I can call them off.”

Hubert staggers to his feet, and only then does Ferdinand see the deep gash of red slicing through his shirt and torso, blooming bright with every second. And Ferdinand knows he should rush forward, but every insult, every curse, every hateful word he’s ever said to Hubert lodges on the tip of his tongue and refuses to let any noise come out—

“Hubert, please—”

Hubert wavers on his feet, and collapses against Ferdinand. “Ferdie,” he mumbles.

“Don’t you dare—”

Hubert’s eyes flutter shut as he sags into him. “You were right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next:** An awkward council meeting.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 14 fanart!!!
> 
> ["You were right" by Queen Schadenfreude](https://twitter.com/qschadenfreude/status/1301058540698832899?s=20)
> 
> Wow.
> 
> It took almost a YEAR, but we've come to the end of the journey. Thank you so, so much to every one of you has joined me for this ride! There are so many more of you than I could ever have hoped, and I've been so utterly delighted with all your kind comments, your fanart, your cheerleading, and most of all, your PATIENCE. Seriously, I'm blown away by how kind and encouraging you all have been while I slowly, agonizingly finished this fic! THANK YOU FOR READING.

The world became glimpses and fleeting moments.

Flowers, the scent of flowers clogging Hubert’s nose and vision, mingling with a tang of sweet sweat and sturdy arms holding him up.

Shouting, sobbing, slipping on blood.

The snap of a banner caught on the breeze and the thudding of hooves beneath him.

A hand squeezed around his own, refusing to let go.

An endless stream of whispers, shaped into a prayer to a goddess who no longer exists: _Please, please,_ please.

Then there is only a hot light in his chest and a gnawing cold that drags him down, drags him under, and all is silent and dark.

* * *

When Hubert opens his eyes, it’s with a panicked gasp, a million urgent thoughts clashing together at once.

Lady Edelgard. Marching into a trap. The count, the mercenaries, the Alliance—all of them ready to leverage each other against her.

No—Count Gloucester dead, his blood smearing Hubert’s face—Hubert reaches up to claw at his skin, try to scrub it away—

Ferdinand. _Ferdinand._ The mercenaries were holding him, they were going to gamble with him—

“Can you not relax for one second? Honestly, Hubert. You’re going to tear your stitches if you don’t stop.”

Hubert blinks away the cloud of sleep, and turns to find Her Majesty, Emperor Edelgard sitting at his bedside. “My lady.” He struggles to sit up. “My lady, I have to warn you. They know you are coming—the mercenaries, they’re waiting to ensnare—”

“Shhh. Yes, I know. You sent Dorothea to warn me. Remember?” She smiles, and smooths his bangs back from his forehead. “Thank you for that. Saved us from quite a disastrous battle. I don’t even want to think what kind of casualties we might have incurred, or even less, what might have happened to you and Ferdinand . . .”

Hubert bites his lower lip. There are so many more important things to ask her, and yet—“Is he all right . . . ?”

“Ferdinand? Goodness, yes. He’s fine. Everyone is, thanks to you. Well. Everyone but Count Gloucester and the mercenaries he bought out from under us.” Her brow creases, stormy. “But we owe you—and Ferdinand, and Dorothea, and even von Riegan, for that matter—a huge debt from saving us from a big catastrophe.”

“It was only my duty to you.” He closes his eyes, very exhausted now that his initial surge of panic has subsided. “But what . . . What happened?”

Edelgard smiles at him, that sisterly, teasing grin he knows so well. “You got a nasty stab wound from the count, it would seem. Fortunately Ferdinand brought you back to our camp, and Linhardt was able to patch you up. Then Claude and his lieutenants called for a meeting to discuss terms.”

So Ferdinand is all right. He’s all right . . . His hand brushes over the thick gauze wrappings fixed tight around his chest. “Terms? Of the Alliance’s surrender, I trust?”

Edelgard glances away from him, her face glowing in the trickle of sunlight that’s seeped into their tent. A tent, canvas sides rippling in the breeze. They must still be on the hillsides beyond Derdriu, where the Adrestian encampment had lain in wait to launch their attack on the capital of the Alliance. “No, not exactly.”

Hubert struggles again to sit up. “Your Majesty. What are you saying?” He grunts, pain sending icy needles up his chest and down his limbs. “My lady, surely you don’t mean to surrender—”

“I’m not _surrendering_ anything. I just think we need to reexamine our priorities, is all.” She presses her lips together. “The point of this war is to rid the land of the plague of the crest system, isn’t it? Of the tyranny of the Church of Seiros. That’s all I truly want. I want their power erased, people to be freed . . .”

“What are you saying, my lady?”

She stands up, brushing out her skirts. “Only that there is more than one path to success, Hubert. Really, I should be thanking you for reminding me of that.” She gives him a tiny smile, something secretive. “I need to prepare for our discussions. But I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes.”

“My lady, wait. Please, you must let me assist you. I don’t want you walking into another trap in these so-called—_negotiations_—”

“Not everything is a trap, Hubert.” She pauses at the entrance to the tent and turns to look at him. “Well. At least, not always in the way you think.”

He stares at her for a moment. What is she trying to tell him? He thinks back to the beginning of the month, the last time he really saw her—That dreadful meeting with her and the professor and Ferdinand, revealing their insidious plan that hinged on him and Ferdinand portraying that dreadful affair. “Is there something you need to tell me, my lady?”

She makes a show of buttoning up her lips. “Get your rest, Hubert. I’ll have plenty of work for you _once_ you’re healed.”

And then she slips off, leaving him to stew in his thoughts.

* * *

Hubert spends the next few days bored to tears.

Linhardt appears every few hours, patting away a yawn, to check his wound dressings and shove another spoonful of sedative down his throat, until he stubbornly crosses his arms and refuses to be doped up any longer. “Suit yourself,” he yawns, and vanishes for much longer this next time. Dorothea drops by with a stack of books for him to read, mostly his usual array of historical treatises and governance notes, but also a few romance novels she must have unearthed from void only knows where. When he tries to argue against them, she gives him a filthy look that shuts up even his most virulent protests and all but throws one at him as she storms off. “Just read the damn thing. It can’t make you any _worse_ at this than you already are.”

He sticks his tongue out at her as she leaves, then gives a miserable groan. His wit and logic must be atrophying something fierce in this accursed sickbed.

Finally, one evening, their old professor appears in the tent, wide eyes assessing his state with a tiny frown. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I could chew my own arm off to escape.”

No laughter; just a slight twitch of her mouth toward a smile. “We decided it’s for the best if you aren’t a part of the negotiations tomorrow, for . . . what I hope are obvious reasons.”

Hubert sighs and turns his head from her. Does she mean the part where he tried to orchestrate an attack on the Alliance, or the one where he killed a high-ranking member of it? A little of everything, perhaps.

“However, Her Majesty has agreed that you should accompany us to them, at the least. A chance for you to show that you mean no ill will toward them.”

“Don’t I?” he mumbles. He thinks of Ferdinand in the moonlight, pleading with him to stop being himself for a damned minute. It’s his nature, his person, to be underhanded, scheming, tactical. To do otherwise surely would only disappoint, in the end.

Byleth shake her head. “I think you’ll do whatever you need to, to support Her Majesty. If what she wants is an armistice, then you’ll stop at nothing to get it for her.”

“But we rejected such a possibility long ago,” Hubert says, dipping his hands into the fog of his memories from before this cursed month. How can he even remember anything from before the first day of Great Tree Moon? It’s only been twenty-nine days and he feels as if his very skin has been stripped away and turned inside out. This much, though, he’s certain of. The whole reason they began their march on Derdriu in the first place. The whole reason he was forced into this mad scheme.

Byleth shrugs, that enigmatic smile still holding. “I think General von Aegir can be very persuasive.”

Of course Ferdinand is the one pushing for a truce. Of course he still believes in all the things he saw while they were on their mission. These alleged signs that Claude and the rest would be happy to serve as their allies, and reject the very things that have bound them to Fódlan. So trusting, after all this time.

“And it gives you an excuse to leave the medical tent.”

Hubert glowers at the canvas walls, the romance novels from Dorothea (he’ll never forgive the brooding heir for rejecting the affections of the idealistic stableboy for the vengeful knight he could burn the world down with; he will track down this Lady who wrote it and have some words). “. . . If I must.”

* * *

It is the last day of Great Tree Moon and they are gathering at the front of camp to ride to Derdriu when he realizes it’s the first he’s seen of Ferdinand since the attack.

Ferdinand’s gaze immediately skips over him, and he shrinks into his saddle, long-faced with guilt. It’s like fingers wrapping around Hubert’s heart for a sharp squeeze. The last time they truly spoke, Ferdinand was berating him for his refusal to even consider working with the Leicester Alliance, after all, and now they’re preparing to do just that.

No, the last time he saw him—Oh. The last time he saw him, he told him he was right. That, however fleetingly, working with the Alliance had been the right course after all.

Hubert supposes it’s too late to go back on his word now.

“Good morning, von Aegir,” he says stiffly. “Nice to see you again.”

Ferdinand watches him with his lower lip in his teeth as Hubert climbs onto Avané. “Is it?”

Only now does it occur to Hubert to feel wounded that Ferdinand never visited him at the medical tent. At the time, it had been an immense relief; every guest that appeared at the entrance flooded him with dread and the sudden awareness that he had no idea what words could possibly suffice. Does he need to apologize for the ass he made of himself, repeatedly and persistently, throughout their time in Derdriu? Is he the one deserving an apology for Ferdinand’s cruel slight? Should they pretend everything that passed between them had never been, or acknowledge it for a mistake? What did Hubert even want from him? What did he need?

“Well, seeing as how you never bothered to visit me during my convalescence,” Hubert growls, “it’s good to see that you are alive after all.”

As soon as the words leave him, Hubert is fairly certain that the correct thing to say was Not That.

Ferdinand scrunches his eyes shut and sighs. “Ahh. There’s the Hubert I missed.”

_Stop being you,_ Ferdinand’s voice echoes around him. “There’s me, indeed.”

“I did visit you,” Ferdinand says. “You were sleeping both times, though. I thought maybe it was—better that way.”

The words scoop a hollow out of Hubert. “Probably so.”

Ferdinand turns his head, orange eyes catching a gleam of sunrise. “I’m sorry. This isn’t how I meant for this to go at all. I just thought . . .”

And the fierce tug of _want_ knocks Hubert’s breath away with its urgency. The thought that somehow, despite all he’s done, despite all he is, Ferdinand could still want anything to do with him. That there could even be a sliver of a chance that what they had in Derdriu was real, or could have been, if they’d only tried.

Probably for the best, then, that Hubert keeps fucking it up.

“General?” Her Majesty calls. “Minister? We really ought to head out.”

Hubert looks back toward Ferdinand, and wishes he hadn’t. Then he wouldn’t have seen the pained look on his face, the one for a moment he mistakes as a mirror of the longing he’s currently feeling, too. He shakes his head and quickly faces forward, nudging Avané toward the path.

“Of course, my lady,” he says swiftly, and onward they ride.

* * *

Once they’re safely inside the (largely undamaged) Duke’s Palace on its island in the harbor, Claude guides them all to a large assembly room Hubert hasn’t seen before. Several long tables are arranged in a square with open space at the center, and chairs are pushed back against the walls for observers like Hubert to sit and watch the discussions. Her Majesty and Ferdinand, of course, will be occupying seats at the tables, as will Claude and Lorenz. The latter rushes toward Ferdinand, a bundle of flowers in his arms that he shoves right at Ferdinand. “Happy birthday, dear,” he coos, and they laugh and lapse into easy chatter amongst themselves while Edelgard and Claude conduct cautious greetings.

Birthday. Ferdinand’s birthday. The last day of Great Tree Moon.

With everything else, it’s completely slipped Hubert’s mind. Yet another failing on his part.

Dorothea drags Hubert over to the chairs, and seats herself between Hubert and Leonie against the wall, striking up easy chatter with the Alliance woman while Hubert does his best not to stare at Ferdinand and Her Majesty as they settle in at their tables. Even Dorothea is smiling easily enough, prompting Leonie to smile as well, and Hubert turns to the side to try to give them some privacy to chatter away. His mind, though, is roiling. With his conversation—argument—whatever it was—with Ferdinand. With the past few days he squandered being cross with him, convinced he’d abandoned him without a word. With that unsettling realization that had struck him during their frantic battle through Derdriu, as he’d been forced to cooperate with Claude and the rest, if only for Ferdinand’s—and Her Majesty’s—sake.

Ferdinand had been right, of course. There was another way. And now both the Leicester Alliance and the Adrestian Empire meant to formalize just how right he was. If they could agree to terms Her Majesty would accept . . .

“The truth, gentlefolk of the Alliance and the Empire, is that far more unites us than divides us. And one of those things is our common foe.” Ferdinand paces the opening in between the long tables, hands tucked behind his back. “It is not the Churh of Seiros, precisely, but rather everything it embodies in its current form. The cruelty of the system of crests. The stifling oppression of nations unable to govern themselves free of the Church’s will. We face these struggles in our own ways in Adrestia, but I have now seen first-hand how they affect the Alliance, as well, with its assortment of peoples from Almyra, Morfis, and more, whose ways of life have always existed without the Church’s strictures, and who cannot thrive under them while remaining themselves. In fact, none of us can thrive under the Church’s thumb, and the systems it enforces. That is why Her Majesty wages this war, and it is why I propose today that we unite in ending it. Because for all our differences, we each carry our own strengths, and to surrender those strengths is to lose the very thing we fight for in the first place.”

Hubert scowls and turns his head away. He’d always thought his strength lay in subterfuge, deceit, machination. They’ve served him well enough this far. But they cannot do everything. Ferdinand wouldn’t possibly suggest he is better off sticking by his old tactics, not after everything they’ve faced now. It makes for a nice speech, but it isn’t one he can really mean, not on the battlefield of daily life.

“I propose we form, not only a treaty, but a pact. One that unites us toward the common cause of rooting out tyranny no matter what form it takes. We each retain our sovereignty, from each other and from the Church alike. But where such heinous oppression threatens, we stand together to oppose it. Other nations are free to join us. Should they not reject such appalling forces, however, we will be resolute in preventing their tainted treachery to spread. In this, both our nations retain our autonomy whilst using our common ground to grant us strength that is greater than the sum of its parts.”

It sounds . . . fragile. Intangible. And yet the fervor in Ferdinand’s tone has even Hubert leaning forward, pulled by his very words.

“There is no need to change who we fundamentally are. Only find a way that these diametric forces can unite, and become stronger for it.”

Ferdinand’s gaze catches his as he returns to his seat, and Hubert hates that even now, his heart does a little flip. How can it not understand, after everything, how intensely Ferdinand must despise him?

When Her Majesty speaks, she lays out the structure to support Ferdinand’s ideas: the council, the rules and bylines, the scaffolding to make Ferdinand’s idea into something they can actually act on, something binding, something good. Preethi, in a chair at the far wall, nods along with a faint smile. Of course Ferdinand and Her Majesty managed to persuade her, too. They could move just about anyone to reason.

Hubert doesn’t really want to know where that leaves him.

Claude speaks last, summing up first his grievances with Edelgard—settling an uncomfortable fog around the room. The grievances, after all, are more to do with Hubert’s deeds than her own. The spies he’s ran within the Alliance, his and Ferdinand’s attempts at deception, and finally, the hiring of mercenaries to siege the city. “It’s not a great base for us to build on, I gotta admit. Doesn’t fill one with a whole lotta confidence.”

Edelgard’s jaw shifts as she listens; Ferdinand glances toward Hubert, and then quickly away.

“But it also came from a place of misunderstanding. We didn’t see what Adrestia really sought from this war; Adrestia didn’t believe we could ever find common ground. With men like Count Gloucester at the helm, they might even have been right. Just goes to prove, I think, how much we need this framework—not just for Adrestia-Alliance relations, but for all such discussions throughout Fódlan and beyond. Sometimes it takes a little deception to force us to see the truth, I guess. About each other, and ourselves.”

Hilda huffs, and glowers at Hubert from across the room, but she’s all smiles for her boss.

In the end, they sign the treaty, and all attention is on the leaders. The figures for whom the path of light will always shine the brightest. And for Hubert—no one notices at all as he slips away to the upper terrace to grab some fresh air. No matter what platitudes they offer, the shadow will always be his home.

* * *

Ferdinand finds him on the terrace as he watches the sun start to nestle amidst the western hills of Derdriu, on terra cotta tiled rooftops and Almyran prayer towers and cypress trees thrust like spears into the spreading eventide. Gold limns him as he approaches, backlit, holding two glasses of champagne, and Hubert is reminded all too painfully of a similar terrace meeting in Garreg Mach. How could it have been less than a month since then? Surely it belonged to another life. Another era.

“You’ve been awful quiet about all of this,” Ferdinand says, holding one glass out to him.

Hubert takes it, staring at the bubbles. “What’s there for me to say? My services are not required. Claude made that abundantly clear, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think that was his point at all.”

“What you and Her Majesty are crafting . . . it takes people like you. Someone like me, I only taint it with my darkness, my shadowy affairs. You were right, as always; there needed to be another way than the path we initially embarked upon for all this. There is no use in—” He bites the inside of his cheek and welcomes the salty tang of blood. “Well. In me being me.”

Ferdinand stares at him with soft amber eyes, liquid and golden in the sunset. “If that’s what you took away from that, then you weren’t listening at all.”

Hubert gives a harsh laugh and turns toward the railing, unable to see the fire in that gaze a moment longer. It reminds him too much of how bright it burns in the cool shadows of the bedroom they shared; of the way Ferdinand’s mere touch could sear his skin and brand his heart, forever altering it. He was never meant to have what they shared, however fleetingly, on their mission together. But now it’s tainted him, infected him, and he can never let it go.

“The Alliance is not the Empire, and we will never do things the same way. What’s important is that we do them for the same reasons, toward the same end. That’s how we preserve this treaty, and make real change within our respective lands. But if we can’t do that without honoring what makes us separate, then there’s hardly a point to it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I don’t know. I’m not the politician,” Hubert snaps.

Ferdinand makes some disgusted noise in the back of his throat, and, flames, how Hubert hates that even that noise is charming coming from him. “No, but you understand human nature quite well. It’s part of your work. You understand all too perfectly what I am like, what you are like—so much that you know just what sort of deeds, if you permit them into your heart, will infect it and take root.” Ferdinand’s voice softens, a fragile yolk stripped of its shell. “It’s why you pushed me away, before, is it not?”

_There are things I want more,_ Hubert told him once. Seized with fear, glimpsing into a terrifying future in which his duty for Lady Edelgard was compromised with unyielding, unshakable love for someone else. And yet that emotion came for him all the same; led him into its trap nonetheless. If he’d only allowed himself, gone willingly, then at least he might have something to show for it.

“I thought I could wall myself off.” His voice breaks. “I thought I could keep myself from yielding to you, becoming the sort of man who compromised his duty and lost himself in love, when there was, in truth, no escape.”

“And I thought I could hate you. Could blame you for being that way. As if it was a choice you easily made, and not a means you chose to torture yourself.” Ferdinand moves closer to him, a shadow crossing over Hubert’s shoulder, a warmth itching between his shoulderblades. “It was, I think, a kind of torture for us both.”

Hubert swallows; when he speaks, it’s a delicate whisper. “It was and is.”

“Hubert, please.” Ferdinand sighs. “Look at me.”

Hubert turns, and his chest yearns to burst as he takes in those glowing locks, that face both soft and sharp.

“We could not have done this without you and your way of things. We could not have sussed out Count Gloucester and stopped him; we could not have shown the Alliance the value of joining with us and the protection we can offer thus. And if it were not for you, I . . . well, I might have never known that exquisite torture, too.”

_Exquisite._ He can’t help but laugh. “I’ve been trained in the art of torture for the better part of my life, and I’ve never heard it called such.”

“But that is what you are. And I should not seek to change that. You poke and prod and tease and anger and jab your little needles at all my tender parts, and somehow, in doing so, you provoke just the reaction I need. You force me to consider that which I’d never have grasped on my own. To admit feelings I could not have tolerated under any other circumstance. You . . . challenge me. In all the best and most vexing ways.”

Ferdinand’s lower lip trembles, and he brings one hand to cup Hubert’s cheek with strong, warm fingers. Hubert wants to squeeze his eyes shut and shrink away from the intimacy of it, but he also can’t bear to miss a moment.

“I . . . I love you, Hubert. Because you are difficult. Not in spite of it. And because you are underhanded, and determined, and clever, and courageous, and loyal, and gorgeous, and because you bring out the best in me and challenge me to be more. Whether to prove you wrong, or prove you right.”

Hubert can’t help the soft sob that escapes his lips. Because when has he ever heard anyone say such things to him? Far less the one person he craves to hear them from most. Has craved. For more years than he cares to admit.

“I love you, Ferdinand.” Now he has to shut his eyes; he can’t bear whatever way Ferdinand might be looking as he says it. “You make me want to be better—but—a better me.”

Ferdinand shakes with a soft laugh. “Then what on earth are we fighting it for?”

“Nothing,” Hubert, says, and leans forward to claim his lips.

Ferdinand tastes sweeter than the champagne, and brighter than that burning sunset, though he carries every color and hue and more besides. Better than Hubert remembered. Which was better than even before that. Always better, always more, like something that will never sate him, but he’s more than happy to try and try.

Their mouths slot together so perfectly, and even if it’s a touch of a struggle, a slight back and forth—when has it never been, with them? If he must spend his life fighting Ferdinand von Aegir, better it be like this. Fighting for each other, together, striving, making something from it rather than destroying. Arms around each other’s waists and tongues embraced and soft sighs mingling together into a single breath.

“ Can we . . . ? Can we try this?” Ferdinand asks, forehead resting up against Hubert’s, eyes somehow glowing in the shadows. “No tricks, no masks this time. No deception.”

Hubert blinks back the surge of tears that sting the corners of his eyes; the roar of fire in his chest that is both hungering and yet perfectly satisfied. “There is nothing I want more.”

* * *

When they return to the great hall where the rest of the reception is taking place, it’s arm in arm, champagne glasses empty, Ferdinand’s lips rosy and raw the way Hubert’s also feel. Edelgard lifts an eyebrow as she gives Hubert a little smile, and he starts to duck his head, but she laughs, and all too quickly turns her attention back to Byleth and whatever private conversation they’re sharing in one corner of the hall. Claude and Lorenz are dancing together as an Almyran ensemble spins an unusual melody that tugs hard at Hubert’s heart with a memory of the coffeehouse and Ferdinand’s warmth at his side. Hilda glances toward them and immediately rolls her eyes, while Marianne gives them both a tiny wave. Ignatz and Raphael are laughing by the bar, and suddenly Raphael hoists Ignatz up into an embrace. Cyril drags Lysithea out on the dance floor, and her protests quickly die out once he spins her around with practiced steps. And Leonie is giving Dorothea what appears to be an impromptu archery lesson (sans weaponry), hands lingering a moment too long as she adjusts Dorothea’s hips.

It might not always be so effortless as an evening like this. But they have a plan, they know their course now, they know what compromises they can make. And with Ferdinand at his side, Hubert is certain—whatever challenge he faces, however much they challenge each other—he can bring it back to this. Arm in arm, no masks, no lies. Just the truth of their feelings, burning brighter every day.

It is all worth it for that genuine smile of Ferdinand’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep an eye on my Twitter for an exciting announcement tomorrow~  
[@Bohemienne6](http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6)

**Author's Note:**

> [@Bohemienne6](http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6)


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